The pale Sun clambers up St Andrews steeple
for a moment it trembles like a spinning plate

appealing bells ring out its rise
as the pagan sphere ascends through immaculate skies

dog walkers desecrate the sacred stones
their canine companions water old bones

the ancestors wetted they wander off home
while the bell ringer ponders the silence alone

In the vestry the Vicar prays for a calling
the congregation is shrinking his sermons too boring

the ladies bring jam and sing out of tune
and he fears that his Kingdom has Come far too soon

with so much to do before evensong
how can it be that these days seem so long

but still he will live out his life between bells
rewarded in heaven for this little hell