A Lunar Month

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