Prepare the bell for
sounding: Cast the metal
(bronze? for belief...)
Its very nature is
the truth of its
voice.
And then there is
the winter sky:
Ah, I can't describe it.
But it calls
and dark birds take
flight, desiring
that brightness. The
sounding distance
arrives, wings mended new
by that far, fresh
falling:
Bells.
-Kevin Macneil Brown
This poem turns out to be preamble to some music I'm at work on now.
