Mike McCormack

The Bell

The bell as, hearing the bell as, hearing the bell as standing here, the bell being heard standing here, hearing it ring out through the grey light of this morning, noon or night, God knows.

This grey day standing here and listening to this bell in the middle of the day.

The middle of the day bell.

The Angelus bell in the middle of the day.

Ringing out through the grey light to here.

Standing in the kitchen, hearing this bell snag my heart and draw the whole world into being here.

pale and breathless, after coming a long way to stand in this kitchen, confused, no doubt about that, but hearing the bell from the village church a mile away as the crow flies, across the street from the garter station, beneath the giant sycamore trees which tower over it,

And in which a colony of rooks have made their nests, so many and so noisy, that sometimes in spring, when they are nesting, their clamour fills the church and, exhausted now, so quickly, that sprint to the church and the bell, yes, they are the real thing, the real bells.