The ringing isle, that Handel named
still rings, despite the lack of faith,
of those who dwell within the bounds
of steeple and sky piercing spires.
They hear,
above the daily grind,
despite white headphones in each ear,
and dreary ‘music’ banging.
And when the peals are rightly famed
for purity of dinging sounds
and clarity of singing chimes,
they feel, quite rightly, that they own
this tintinnabulation tone,
this lovely clinging clanging.
Bonging, tenor rhymes
re echo
from marvellous medieval towers
on and on and on they go,
inside the mind
and give the sense this noise is ours.
And how much greater pride we feel,
when ‘our’ bells’ seem to appeal
to those who choose which shall appear
on Sunday morning radio.
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