for the ghosts who sell memories 

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

 

Echoing the songs sung by the famine children
the tones of the big bell settle in the dust
of this small market town in County Meath
and on the stained glass window, still,
I see the sun-marked resonance of bell — 

Circles of uninscribed sound
uncaged
through all the cerebral centuries
chimes and chants for Christ the King
chimes of crucifix, pyx and plate –

These bells have blessed the insouciant faithful –
buttressed, battered, no-man mattered –
through all the occupied centuries.
turning dust to dust again
and swaying to the music of bells.

Echoes of the songs sung by the famine children
move me to tears, again,
as the tones of the big bell settle in the dust
of this small market town in County Meath
and, on the stained glass window, still
I see the sun-marked
resonance of bell — 
circles of uninscribed sound
uncaged
through all the occupied centuries.

Chimes and chants for Christ the King
chimes of crucifix, pyx and plate –
these bells have blessed the insouciant faithful –
buttressed, battered, no-man mattered –
through all the occupied centuries
turning dust to dust again
and swaying to the music of bells.

 

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