Victorian brick, stained-black red
bell tower looming, an empty head
eyes plucked out by pigeon-rats
that nest now under roofing slats.
Scuttle below: the dusty church mice
squeaking in the heavy holy silence
that hangs in empty church chest cavity
under Gothic ribs, grey stone-wrought canopy.
Back in the tower under thief-sought lead
the heavy bells dangle in the head
they sit there beshitten, never knell
and peer out across the urban hell,
and see there, massing in Sunday best
hoodies, the people, traipsing towards the west
Tesco-wards they throng and tread
in search of their discount weekly bread.