After crossing the grey Austrian alps, <br />and viewing the white medieval church <br />near the top of the cold pass, <br />we came down into <br />what seemed a palmed paradise, <br />warm Italy around a blue still lake <br />by an old town, edged with cliffs, <br />altars to Mary and her child <br />cut in <br />hundreds of feet up. <br /> <br />In the next morning's first light <br />shining through open windows <br />I heard the church bell's first strikes ringing <br />amidst the birdsong, and imagined <br />the carvers climbing once more the cliffs <br />with the ringing echoing. <br /> <br />A burnished overtone started to glow <br />above the deep belling, <br />like spirits over a statue <br />and then, soaked up by sound <br />the ringer and the ringing disappeared, <br />only the high rich single sounding <br />remained, unwavering, hovering <br />singing without breath <br />a perfect radiating, shining <br />high pure note <br />holding time <br />close to it. <br /> <br />You say <br /> All the world is like this, <br /> every single thing is <br /> one thing <br /> sounding <br /> from me.<br /><br />Ian Trousdell<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/nature-an-italian-bell/
