St Martin in the fields
Chimes its bells
And I'm on the steps
Between Nelson's column
And the National Gallery
The bells bellow
An urgency
A crescendo pattern
That speaks directly
To my emotional self
The tempo is
Uneasing me
Disturbing me
What's the emergency?
When will it stop?
Where's the fire?
For God's sake?
It's like a magnet
Switching poles
Attraction and
Repulsion
Come hither
Go thither
And I look at the blue
Dial
With its golden Roman
Numerals and
I hear the fountains
Nicely symmetrical
Splashing down the waters
And the spray
Occasionally reaches me
Here on the steps
While the crane that helps
Renovate the church
Gently sways its
Chain
The Canada House
People about
England's lions
Watchful
Happy smiling people
Who obviously don't hear
The knot-twisting-stomach-
Aching
Rhythm of the bells
Incessantly
To me
Nelson's cracked
It seems
Must have a closer look
Did it crack
Because he too
Felt the
Angst of
St Martin?

(This is a very recent poem on which I cannot yet comment, save that again, this is/was a real experience for me.)