The Sound of Bells
So, nearly every morning I have a period of ‘morning meditation’ (could also be called ‘dozing’) when I try to let whatever wants to come into my mind and I hold the intention of ‘I am listening’ to the Gods.
Recently, as has not happened before (usually I am suddenly woken in the middle of the night) a quatrain of poetry formed in my head. So I struggled up, picked up my bedside pad and pen, and wrote it down. While I was writing, the second quatrain formed up in line.
When I got up and downstairs I typed it out into the computer place where I write and store things. As is my habit I let it sit a couple of days and then went back and looked it over again.
“The Gods speak a more archaic form of English than even I do…” was my thought, “but who am I to tell Them to modern it up?”
A few days more and it suddenly became clear that it needed a closing quatrain about how time’s not linear but circular. Tonight as I was visiting and telling my friend about how my week went and I got to that moment in the story I suddenly thought, “Drowned Ys rises to the sound of bells….”
So when I got home I was messing around with that but I couldn’t get the sound of bells in with the circularity, etc (you may notice that the line has too many syllables) and I was just going to then title it ‘the sound of bells’ which I like anyway. But as I was changing the title in the header I thought, “Waitaminnite, if there are three quatrains that’s 12 lines, so it needs a couplet to make a sonnet!! A-HA”
The Sound of Bells
Now gladly will I go and come,
Where shines the fiery golden sun,
And golden hinds do sport and play,
Ah, therein shall I have my day.
Then there will come a darker time;
With white bears hunting golden hind,
Madness and Moon to have their sway,
And all of this shall pass away.
Time is not straight, sharp as a pin,
But like a coin on edge, will spin—
And round will come a different when;
Perhaps Drowned Ys will rise again.
And with the sound of bells will be,
Home of the Brave, Land of the Free.
is an elderly Druid (Elders are trees, neh?) living on a tiny urban farm in Ottawa, Canada. She speaks respectfully to the Spirits, shares her home and environs with insects and animals, and fervently preaches un-grassing yards and repurposing trash (aka ‘found-object art’).