John Anderson Poet Other

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Every Bell Knows the Seventh

                First               
          rings  the school         
         bell.  Small   feet       
       gather     beneath    a      
      morning, still keeping to     
     blue.   Doors  spring  open    
 on cue, to welcome them into class.
 The  rush  is  on  to  get  there 
 before  the  bell  ring stops. Bags
             and   books            
             grow  wings            
        to get there on time.       
.                                  
                Second              
          rings  the church         
         bell.   Its   bronze       
       mouth  rings  a silence      
      older     than    prayer.     
     Curtains  stir  well before    
 their  consciences  do. The call is
 compelling,    insistent,    though
 forgiving. The bell ring stops long
             before  the            
              listening             
                 do.                
.                                  
              Third  is             
          the       wedding         
         bells.   Two  people       
       gather  themselves like      
      birds perched in separate     
     trees.    Their    promises    
    travel   farther,   than  the   
 voices  that release them. Even the
 air  seems so well-dressed just for
 the occasion. The bells brings much
             joy     and            
              laughter,             
         for all to join in.        
.                                  
              Fourth is             
          sound  of  ship's         
         bells.    The    sea       
       speaks  a  language  no      
      shore  can ever remember.     
 Each  watch  dissolves into another
 unseemly  hour. Horizons escape the
 rings  for the last round No sailor
             ever  heads            
             towards his            
            true horizon.           
.                    
              Fifth               
          tolls   the  town         
         clock.     Afternoon       
       gathers   in   silence,      
      inside   the   old   town     
     clock.  Windows rattle with    
 lives  forever,  arriving somewhere
 else. The hands move in ways no one
 can   ever  follow.  We  count  the
            bells, hoping             
             its not our           
           last journey.       
.                                  
              Sixth  is             
          the  cry of alarm         
         bells.       Morning       
       arrives,   exactly   as      
      expected.  Then suddenly,     
     certainty    forgets    its    
 address.  Sirens  pierce  the sky -
 screaming  mayhem.  Every  familiar
 face  suddenly  looks  for another.
               Nothing              
    afterward  
                answers to the           
            bell's name.    
.                                  
                  Seventh              
          sounds        the         
         passing   bell.  The       
       air  grows too heavy to      
      carry  another  word. Old     
     names  return,  before  old    
 voices  speak. Echoes settle, where
 memories  cast the longest shadows.
 Perhaps,   every   bell,  has  been
             ringing for            
             this   last            
               moment.              
.                                  
                          

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