A bell once rung, can never be ‘un-rung.’
A sudden river, sound forges a path through air and clay
Shifts sand, shrubs and sleepers,
Altering terrain and dreams with dispassionate urgency.
A deep, vibrating echo of a bell can still be felt at
Christmas,
No matter the hectic mash-up in my mind.
Always, there is one small corner in the temple curtain
turned up,
One small glimpse of one small Child.
One small curve of cloth where I can duck and enter
The gateway of my temple-heart,
Pass through the clumsy re-stitched drape to enter
The Holy of Holies.
He lies within the Covenant Ark,
Cunningly concealed by straw.
A bell once rung, can never be ‘un-rung.’
Can
you hear the star sphere singing a course to Bethlehem?
Can
you feel the vibration of wings and wings and wings of angels?
Can
you sense beneath your feet the earth rebounding from hooves and shepherds’
crooks?
A celestial deluge through the desert;
The clarion tone of Incarnation,
Cunningly concealed in a Baby’s small wail.
