Bells
bells
from edges of my dreams
a morning chorus
begins softly.
in the forest meadow
a slow plodding rhythm
sways closer,
brings
recognition.
cow bell’s,
their tinny clunk made more melodious,
all harshness trapped
among the evergreen branches
on bedewed trees.
Hick’s cows, their udders full,
seek relief from the soft handed girl
who waits at the gate
their music is joined
by the bell from
the old Anglican church tower
perched on the hill behind the barn,
it shyly peel’s out a message.
both sounds intertwine, ascend
flow over still somnolent water,
not even the fish are jumping yet,
the heavenly praise loses it self
in the primeval woods.
Sunday bells
early summer morning
Inglesby Bay.
Copyright © Patricia Cresswell | Year Posted 2019
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