Campanīle

A Roman church belfry,gold cross reaching for clouds:bell tolls, sets brass note free,sings out through misty shroud, its high peal an appealto the faithful long gone.No more piety’s zeal:many sunsetted dawns. Its stone tower keeps watchthrough the mask of dusk-rain,skies loosing their barrageupon roof tiles again. Who pulled on the bell cord?Lone monk in his cloisterwith none left in accord.He, grain in church oyster — yet no cell holds his bed,no dust stirred by his shoes,his name never was said,no old books that he used. The bell rope hangs, worn, frayed,gnawed by church mice’s teeth.It’s been long since it swayed,pulled by hands underneath. The night wind whispers psalmsand breathes canticles’ chantto swing the clapper of bronze,I answer in descant — but not with my own voice.The wind swallows my call,chimes its own holy noisewith the hands of its squall.