Carillon

Our muddy boots kick up the
funereal reek of autumn's late demise
still festering under damp blown leaf litter,
prisoner to the webs, finger twigs and grasping briars.

We are stopped in our tracks,
a pedigree of church bells
arranged like raucous choristers
tumbles across the shallow valley
and shivers briskly along its watercourse.

This clarion water music
having chartered the freshening breeze
puppy-licks our faces
then clatters by like a schoolboy late for lunch.

As virgins, we sigh and greedily milk the notes
that squander wantonly between
three bowed willows that line the narrow causeway

It ceases suddenly
and we wait like mourners
blowing into our scarves
as if to rekindle embers
hoping for a repechage

© Graham Sherwood 02/2017