keeps time. Reaches
through the fire of praying,
to the ears of birds.
Is a voice, a cry, a call
as simple as rivers
that once ran
over deep, dumb-tongued rocks,
clear to the sea.
Kay McKenzie Cooke
Believe it or not, this poem is a protest poem.
Also, it hasn't finished saying all it wants to say ... is probably still a work in progress.
I have an affinity with bells, maybe because when my father's brother had a daughter called Joy, my father insisted on calling his new niece 'Joybells'. Then when I was born some years later, my Uncle Jack delightedly got his revenge by dubbing me 'Kaybells' - a name which stuck (in the family) for quite some years.
Lately I have been taking photos of church bells - so expect to see them featured here on occasion, even if only as a way of putting the photos to some use.
For more Tuesday Poems - go here.