Requiem of the Bells

 

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.