Churchbells in the Rain

This house rests

On a brief suburban street,

My reluctant address of some seven, eight years.

I have often hated it

For its ratty, anorexic pines

And wet, soulless heat…

But now, as the gentle rain

Cools the morning

With its bacon-sizzle percussion,

And the old churchbell

—That comforting anachronism—

Exhales its brassy song,

This place almost feels like home.

Back to Writings

Copyright ©2001 Adam Rutledge