He opens them. Bells flood in.
They are drenched by the meme of charisma.
Or is that charismata?
Sound is peeled from the fruit
Of time’s loom by erstwhile sanity.
This is the sound of What Came Before.
Nimrod would have been shaped by
These sound hands.
The moon has since ticked on.
A new tock has taken shape
From what is termed ‘before’.
Is this hysteria or hysteresis?
Words fall dead at paper’s feet.
Only in this way can sound survive
In minds opened like unpractised doors
That have slept in old houses heavy
With the fluid drama of families.
And so generations are peeled
From time’s steeple.
It seems these are our tides.
(C) N J Green