The six long figures peal through the iron air,
the age of reason and the life to come,
repeating in form their difference,
a constant shaping, working out in tone
the nuance of the passing year

perhaps you should try
to take a clack to gather
from the swirl and aether
a pennant or a mascot
for Mustardseed and Moth
and in the bells that circumstance
the alterations in ourselves,
discover true air upwards
from the frozen wayside ditch

Each figure making real
distinctions we will recognize
as reportage and homily
when finally the cold sun falls
cracking into icy hills

No single thing we do will be enough,
but each bell is insistent
on its right and its ability
to be transcribed into
the ringing actions of
each instant of
our metaphysic lives