New Year
We opened the front door. The wakeful house Threw yellow rhombs out on the silvered lawn. The air was utterly still. The cedar trees Stood drawn in brilliant pencil on the stars. The snow was markless and the moon was full. We waited for a blessing on our ears, The new year ring from Scroton far away, Six miles adrift across the glittering fen, Tuning our hearing up to catch all ghosts: At last a little puff of tinkle came, Almost as if it was a thought, not sound, And swung in some drowned belfry in the brain.
Then some exclaimed how thin and faint it was And said it was the distance it had come That fined that clanging towery tangle down To such a wisp: but I thought it was time How could it pierce at all such thronged divides As clogged it off? But still it rang, although We soon turned in, bone-frozen from the snow, Back to the fire. Later when I was laid In my warm sheets, I had a weary dream Of skeletons that made a ringers' team: The tower was crumbling where their peal was hung And all the ropes that pulled them worn and frayed.
Hilary Corke
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