Wootton, Sue: Carillon

Coffee in the shiny chapel we call
the kitchen. Appliances gleam and steam
and we in our gowns sip some bitterness
with cream; read the paper; sit opposite

each other; say very little. The man
on the radio advises that all is well
with the weather, and nothing is new
with the furious, the ideologues,

the bigots, the zealots and the soldiers
of God. There is calm in the potting sheds
of the nation, where the garage philosophers
are smoking their pipes and doing the crossword.

No-one is fiddling with fuses today,
or matching the pips of this bulletin
to the clock on the bomb. So why
do I suddenly feel like an underground

commuter, and why am I not reassured
by your smile?  What do you tend,
so often, in your briefcase? Who phones, always,
at the moment we touch? What have you strapped

so close to your chest? My fingers make the sign
of the steeple. If I prayed, it would be
for one bird, blown off course, and choosing
these rafters. Song in the ribs. Dawn carillon.