A Wind-Tuned Carillon

Brass Bells call to the Green,
branch to branch they run the Twine,
foil fringes dancing patterns by the Sun.

Each chime alone, spelt in wild wind,
now marked its place amoung the Rest.

The Garlands sang shape notes to Dawning Day,
that even daring lips may never let to rise
for a debt they do not know
and how they've spoke no Praise.

Shade had cooled the Earth,
Bare feet below then blest it,

Then the dram glasses joined,
nearly louder!
With ring fingers striking rhythm
by the diamond ice of golden bands decay.

Strings expand in humming,
they found this globe, and sound
a Sunday Hymn and Echo Love,
to the dearly measured places rare to dream.



All "misspelt" words are intentional