2 February 2025

By Philip Kuepper

Grey sound the bells falling
through this winter afternoon,
falling from the church on the hill
above Mystic River.
How they haunt the windless air,
as though the hour has sucked all still.

Grave sound the bells,
as though portending
some profound thing come,
something about to appear
out of nowhere, a ship,
enchanted, on the horizon?

Grey, grave sound the bells,
as though birds in flight,
doves the color of dusk,
echoing, echoing
the tongues of the bells.
And the ship on the horizon comes.

Grey, its sails, grave it moves
toward shore. And the bells
do fall and roll toward the quay.
Ship and bells meet,
and off the ship the mystic
who had been ringing, ringing

the grey, grave bells from afar,
the mystic come to Mystic
carrying the spirit of insight,
to see the town through another year.

(16 January 2025)