Staying Lost (Poetry)

Always within sound
of the Sunday morning bells —
like someone else’s mother
calling in their child
that familiar clear voice meant
for an ear other
than mine

That tolling rolled round —
chime chasing chime
hardly heard for the most part
but pleasant enough
in a far-distant way
the traditional touch
designed for those who belong
to that particular gang

Sent out over the town —
the coded message to come
bells ring just the same
as always they’ve done
ever-faithful as Sunday
pulpit, prayer book and cross
while the good sheep is saved
the sad heathen’s content
                                staying lost