The evening comes down lately in May, <br />the church bell from the tower rings, <br />the train rattles through the lanes <br />of Dublin housing hedgerows. <br />The grounds are tidy, flagpoles white, <br />the fuschia flowers again, <br />the priestly Sunday job is done <br />this eremitical seal. <br /> <br />The morning bell like lauds again, <br />awake the slumbering souls. <br />And sainters for the triduum comes <br />the routine rush staccato <br />like, <br />of novena repetition. <br /> <br />The graveside down the road is full, <br />the coffins bakers dozen, <br />the wedding bells are ringing out, <br />the child his chrism head <br />is done, <br />and villagers are <br /> shriven. <br /> <br />Many the parson, manse and bell <br />is quiet in this age. <br />The footballers from College school <br />kick up against the wall, the ball, <br />in modern meditation. <br /> <br />The Beechwood Bell rings now again <br />since soldiers fell at Somme, <br />post office burned, and shots <br />were heard, just down the local road. <br /> <br />Centenary, look back, that time, <br />though customs change, <br />the bell is ringing onward. <br />For faith and faithless plod, <br />and ruminate in hope.<br /><br />Bernard Kennedy<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/church-in-evening-may/
