And the pulse of the tendril
grew with every rhyme of a
listening life:

‘Old King Cole
Was a merry old soul
And a merry old soul was he ...'

Again, the West
gave evidence;
she testified.

‘Mary Mary Quite Contrary
How does your garden grow...? '

One famous sage swore he could
define the word Tintinnabulation.
And this rang on on the two-portalled chamber.

‘Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star
How I wonder what you are...'

Gently,
the stars came, blinked and faded.
With them were dusts for lower pollutions.
Even the Great Walls of China were built
in light years — distant properties of the stars.

But what precedes these
or comes after them?

How does one retrieve the booming
voice of a tolling bell hung on
the crest of a sloping village?

No harmony is repeated when given off.

Echoes of a prodigious note do not return.

Sadly, memories are distant images only.

These are footnotes to a living age.