At 10, I walked into town
with a sustained sound of
the church’s peel of bells,
a loop of rise and fall in an
indiscernible song – to me
anyway – then returning
home, its remote melody
drifted in and out with my
changing surrounds or
perhaps the shifts of a light
breeze, and hooking into
those touchstones known,
all I could think about was
a curved air of mourning.