As it rings, the ancient belfry
weather beaten about the stone marge;
the musings chime, visions
from the past.
The cheerful townsfolk; round little faces
nipped by icy winds, merrily laughed;
echoes from the halcyon days and
of times shaded, the falling tears.
Dispelling the silence of muted souls,
grief ridden sore hearts
and dark clinging knurled creepers;
the silence of the mysterious spirits
of the night, who hide
as the sound draws near
of the thunder against the grey light.
Breaking the stillness around,
arousing one from repose; as rain drenched,
a galloping horse's hooves
delicately daubs the wet earth.
Dusk shall again gather over the shadows,
as the old belfry tolls;
heard beyond the far off skies
and the knolls.
Breaking in upon the quiet yew'd glens;
the reverberating peals.