Saturday, 25 August 2012

The Spiral Bell

Metal turns.
A hollow pipe
Sounds along its length.

A tone struck,
Echoes clarity.

Standing waves 
In tubular space

Born of confinement
Escapes it,
Runs across air’s 
Vast distance,
Free at last
To die away.

© BH 2012

I started to write about freedom and remembered a fragment from an earlier poem: 'the spiral bell of freedom'. For whatever reason those few words sparked this, something at the same time literal and metaphysical. That's my excuse, at least. Otherwise words fail me.

Saturday, 11 August 2012


Turned my sleep
Black and pungent.

I put my hands on a shovel
In a dream
To scrape and scoop
Gravel to the tar.