daily bread

days you wake up with the song from the night before still singing in your head,
of its own accord
like the bell in the church tower on south street - you imagine the rough scotland winds, blowing in from the firth - stopping to ring the bell like school children running up to the teachers desk and writing wrongs on the chalkboard before the class starts - the firth of forth blows winds to the church bell and sneaks in the tower, ringing chime-ringing on the 17th minute of the hour and only you know why
the church bells don't ring on time.