Somewhere

far away, a bell — barely audible —
calls across a bright September day
from a steeple on an unseen hill
where a short-eared owl inspects a new-made
 
sky, neatly tucked along the wide horizon's
edge, then flies into the freshly laundered blue —
its shadow moving fast below — to find
sleep in the boughs of an ancient yew.
 
Here, a seagull taps at my window
with purpose, braving the broken sill
on which it sits; and as the hours grow
quietly all about, I hear it still —
 
that distant bell, a single note; clearer, bright,
ringing now across this ink-spilled night.

To be published in the Frogmore Papers, March 2012

http://www.frogmorepress.co.uk/