SEVEN BELLS AND BLACK DOGS
Posted: Sat Jul 21, 2012 11:25 pm
Seven Bells and Black Dogs
Empty bottles clustered round his feet as balls cluster round cannon,
on the table a bowl emptied, some brie cheese and a green pear .
His winkle picker shoes were scuffed and both the toes were turning up.
As closing time was called – a sigh, a cry, his soul did bare.
He’d been there drinking wine all day accompanied by strangers
seated at the other tables on this warm and balmy day.
Lilac dawn had turned to midday warm and now twilight was falling.
Seven church bells chimed the dog watch then softly faded away.
She loves you, she loves you not, she loves you – but maybe
she’s running ‘fore the wind now and this was just fantasy.
She loves you, she loves you not, she loves you – but maybe
she really doesn’t - can’t you feel the wind of change?
So he left the empty bottles that were clustered round his feet
and with rolling gait he walked across the green.
He leant against a mighty oak, beneath its dappled shadow
his broad shoulders shook, he made gestures obscene.
He glanced around as if he was a man seeking direction
then into the church I saw him make his way.
Perhaps he thought that God would row the lifeboat of salvation
if he crossed that worn stone portal. Black dogs now held him at bay.
Maureen Clifford © 01/12
Empty bottles clustered round his feet as balls cluster round cannon,
on the table a bowl emptied, some brie cheese and a green pear .
His winkle picker shoes were scuffed and both the toes were turning up.
As closing time was called – a sigh, a cry, his soul did bare.
He’d been there drinking wine all day accompanied by strangers
seated at the other tables on this warm and balmy day.
Lilac dawn had turned to midday warm and now twilight was falling.
Seven church bells chimed the dog watch then softly faded away.
She loves you, she loves you not, she loves you – but maybe
she’s running ‘fore the wind now and this was just fantasy.
She loves you, she loves you not, she loves you – but maybe
she really doesn’t - can’t you feel the wind of change?
So he left the empty bottles that were clustered round his feet
and with rolling gait he walked across the green.
He leant against a mighty oak, beneath its dappled shadow
his broad shoulders shook, he made gestures obscene.
He glanced around as if he was a man seeking direction
then into the church I saw him make his way.
Perhaps he thought that God would row the lifeboat of salvation
if he crossed that worn stone portal. Black dogs now held him at bay.
Maureen Clifford © 01/12
