Friday 31 July 2020


This time a poem about climbing [or failing to] a cathedral's bell tower.
It is sort of slightly true, well the bare bones are.
I am not quite sure where the poem came from. The title arrived and the poem sketched itself out quickly.

In the Bell Tower with Dorothy

The lift, an antique thing

of chrome and satin steel,

as old I gauged as I was then,

shot us up towards the sky.

Deposited in a strange shaped place

my split second realisation that

this convex floor was the concave ceiling

I had dizzed my eyes upon moments before.

In my head something broke

the calm chalk grains in my ears

became a snow storm.

The vertical skewed to a sudden steep angle.

Dorothy, unphased, fearlessly

strode past warning signs

that screamed of danger

lurking each side of the path.

All I could sense was the space below,

the long fall through empty air,

and so on hands and knees I fled back to the ground

to wait for her with my shame.

The poem is too new for me to have a clear perspective on it. I am going to take it to the next meeting of the Secret Poets and get their thoughts on it. Any comments welcomed.
Here's Josh Rouse.

Until next time.

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