Sibelius

Low ringing tone,
The distant bell through frozen fog.
Four beats, each one alone
beyond the window closed.

At the table sits a man,
in grey twilight.
The veil of night now dying fast
for dawn, at last.

His bed unslept.
Hair unkept.
His violin cast down to sit.
Pen scratches over manuscript.
At last it flows.

The music goes over the fields, through trees.
Shoots high and cold.
Smells the salt in the sea.
Spies the church roof glisten.
Bustling families listen to the bell,
its iron tone.
Warm and low,
as deep as the love of home.

The work is done.
Pen set down.
He can now sleep.

© Mark Sheeky. Permission is required for reproduction.