THE BELLS RANG OUT

The bells rang out across the fields
The hour produced its ready rhyme,
Then silence. In the silent waiting
Time its steady progress yields.
Waiting. Waiting for the resumptive chime
Which will time’s progress be re-shaping.

The bells rang out across the town
The hour completed time’s steady sense,
Then disgust. In disgusted waiting
Time’s ready purposed drowned.
Waiting. Waiting for the resumptive sense
Which will time’s purpose be re-stating.

I thought I shared the farmer’s fields
Before time ended. Now the line
Is drawn between dusk and night,
The inevitable season’s progress yields
No weight of corn. As no labour’s mine
I cannot be redeemed by labour’s right.

Because those who labour in the fields
And those who labour in the towns
Have not felt time’s brief vacation,
They know that their time to time yields
And that death their being drowns.
To tent the wound he heals is the lunatic’s vocation.