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Old Bells Chime Clear

Old bells chime clear in the night air;
Bats fly low and swoop on the *tare.
It's wrong of me to hold your hand?
In the last of sun's rays, gold band.

A white mist rolls in from the sea;
It shrouds and cloaks you and me.
I can drown in your corn blue eyes;
Your gaze is where all my hope lies.

Crops sway in the air on firm stem;
Ripe on the cream stalks which bear them.
Our love we do not speak of alone
But we are ripe in our age and one.

Weeds had grown in all of our lives.
We can make the choice to stand strong.

Submitted: Monday, January 28, 2013

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Poet's Notes about The Poem

Just like the crops grow with the weeds, so must love bloom even when surrounded by strife.

*Tare [Pronounced ter]: In the Bible, a weed found growing among crops, usually considered to be darnel.
Darnel: Any of several usually weedy ryegrasses (genus Lolium)

Rhyming couplets chased by an un-rhymed couplet.

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