I Harvest There

The words repeat until they jumble
into emptiness, the beat skips
emphasis in random syncopation,
rhythms rephrasing accent, whittling
away whatever rhyme remains.

The words change, become liturgies,
divested declarations, assertions of
unsure intent; droned deliveries deflate
in flattened tones, the ears stray,
the dirge dwindles into passive static.

Then a bell tolls sharp and clear – a single
note drawn long, a pause in clinging echoes
ringing, dying on the wing; a sigh, a shy, slow
smile as words appear clean and neat
to range across the fertile sky.
© 5 March, 2007 I.D. Carswell