Church Bells
The lamp throws fuzzy shadows
high on these walls, ceiling.
Lonely, unscrupulous,
the borders of my room.
The duvet that falls across my shoulder
and this crumpled pillow
are like snow that covers roots.
Church bells in the London dark.
They mark gradations until midnight.
Circling quarters recircling.
Earthly prayer
winged mechanism
fragmented
sung blind.
Published by Ben Preston
Ben Preston is a poet washed up in London’s Somers Town. He’s worked as a bartender, factory operative, diamond controller, dabbled in philosophy and dropped out of everything. He’s starting again. He’s using the skills he’s developed in creative writing to forge a new life and a new identity.
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Ben Preston 