SHARP spires pierce upwards, and the clouds are full of tumbling
bells. Reckless, breakneck, head over heels down an airy spiral of
stairs run the bells. “Upon Paul’s steeple stands a tree.”
Up again and then once more to the bottom, two steps at a time. “As full
of apples as can be.”
Up again and down again: centuries of climbing have not worn the crystal
smoothness of the degrees.
Along the bellying clouds the little boys of London Town come running,
running as best they may, seeing that at every step they sink ankle-deep
through the woolly surface into the black heart of thunder beneath.
The apples on the trees are swaying in the wind, rocking to the clamour
of bells. The leaves are of bright green copper, and rattle together
with a scaly sound. At the roots of the tree sit four gargoyles playing
a little serious game with dice. The hunch-backed ape has won from the
manticore that crooked French crown with a hole in it which the
manticore got from the friar with the strawberry nose; he had it in turn
as an alms from the grave knight who lies with crossed legs down there,
through the clouds and the dizzy mist of bell-ringing, where the great
church is a hollow ship, full of bright candles, and stable in the midst
of dark tempestuous seas.