High
above, in cathedral bell tower,
where
call the bright Sunday chimes to worship,
echoing
over the snowy hay fields,
here
petal-white doves would roost, aflutter.
In
his oiled dun coat the old bell ringer
would
raise his arms on this bright occasion
in
deference to dark’s harsh abrasion
and
modest sound would emerge, a singer.
Pealing
a song of joy the true bells sound,
with
minute ceaseless praise escalating
to
fall on a brown head below in arms:
depth
to depth, mirrored navy sea will pound,
with
it bringing its salted driftwood’s ring,
thrown
home at last when in the shore’s bare arms.
What
ears could bear this token glory’s strain
as
Sunday’s first call to raise the stone dead?
The
cold are warmed and given Christmas bread
at
this early hour where the sun’s light stains
the
sky with sudden brilliance, an arrow
that
streaks through the silence of our dawn chilled,
coldest
of all with her copper bow raised
was
there Deborah—not less harrowing
than
the saints in vivid Petrarchan hues,
reasoning
with heaven’s glory in red—
in
all its celestial pardon, doves reached
her
log cabin with forgiving soft coos,
midnight
stream arias, the ringer lead;
his
art was implicit, hers unreleased.
The
bells ring and they should, crescendo loud,
struck
by cascading arrows from below:
prophetic
summons of those in the fold—
the
farmer rests from his eternal plough,
the
tireless milkman’s cows plod on beneath
the
dressmaker’s lamplit velvet cape’s glow,
the
baker and his flour-smooth kneaded dough,
the
shopkeeper’s balsam holiday wreath . . .
clergy
call these wool sheep—the praying
dig
deep in their pockets for their last coins—
generous,
the devout at Christmastide.
May
they find rest from their troubles in prayer,
solace
at the window of heav’n deployed,
to
those in need from the faithful kind.
The
poor, the needy with their hand outstretched,
heard
the bells that chimed on Christmas’ bright day,
high
and revelling above the sea’s gray:
there
was no coined respite for the wretched.
There
was a melodic train that cello
and
violin wore beneath the bronze eaves
of
the cathedral, their sonorous leaves
of
chant, carol accompanied, mellow-
sung
for a thousand days in stained glass blue.
Deborah’s
mouth cupped in a hollow sound
for
poverty’s dire want moved into song
and
its ethereal grace swept the roof,
as
outside, she reverent knelt, wore crown
of
the adoring poor as they followed.
One
by one, the sisters trailed through, white-clothed.
Crossing
the wood floor and renaissance tile,
they
sang in quiet tones, in single file,
the
garden holly tree, frosted with snow.
Lady
Fatima’s berries gleamed of high
worth,
while the nuns at their work kneaded bread,
and
sang from the prayer book stitched with fine thread,
respite
the Sacred Heart of Jesus shrine.
His
statue at cathedral close each night
would
weep unbidden the salt tears of sea,
they
would trickle down his marble-pale face
puddle
on the sanctuary floor’s shine,
sorrow
at the woman kept outside, he
wept
tears at her wholly undesired place.
At
this miracle, the priest remained stayed
to
his station, for he could not Christ leave
with
suffering crucified hands and feet,
opal
eyes who cared for the poor, too moved.
It
was on the morning—distilled crystal—
swathed
by a blue shawl, her turquoise eyes raised
to
the finery, decorations praised,
that
Deborah entered the cathedral.
The
two were rivals before the wood doors
of
the prophetic and miracles, ring
the
long soundless bells: the artistry
of
the bell ringer seemed to stale echo;
she
was the cultivator of White pine,
her
hands were gold, she excelled in farming.
All
hallowed voices chant and eyes hushed close;
from
indelible—thousand murmurs cry,
at
rivals’ settings: silver words reach skies’
translucence
of a coal-brimmed gem—opal.
“Emmanuel,”
she rang, ran right into
the
arms of the bell ringer, piercing straight
to
the heart, redemptive plea, the bells mate
in
tower—a mighty gong, pine or two.
As
refrain rises, the bell ringer is
captured
once again with the mind of Christ—
who
knows all things—a stained glass window’s height;
for
he is wise counsellor through the mist
and
his wisdom shines sweetly as the first
bell,
beaded bow of everlasting light.
