Clock and Bells

Another villager died last week
And so they shuffle into church
Where sunset shines through glass, oblique
And church mice hurry from a perch.

The aged pass on but others come
To keep the pews at least half-filled
The Sunday School could raise no sum
So it, with no descant, was killed.

The same for Men's Group and the rest
Whose members were a fickle troupe
A numbers game amongst the blessed
Where prayer and hymn scarce loss recoup.

The bills are paid when font is filled
And afianced are at the altar
When OAPs of stock, strong-willed
Are raising funds, they will not falter.

And so the holy march along
And deck the halls for seasons’ cheer
This church is our church, right or wrong
And faith will make those reasons clear.