A warm mellow tone—
lucky the cow that sported it,
ambling in meadows.
Over the door, dangling,
it announces an entry,
calls her from the kitchen.
A few minutes spent chewing the fat:
the weather, new baby, or
a son home from Boston.
The rhubarb just coming.
A hunk of cheddar chopped
from the block, weighed,
encased in brown paper,
white string unspooled
from its cylinder—
a twist, a flick of the wrist,
string snapped, a flourish,
hand faster than eye—
a bow—
there you go!
A customer leaving,
the bell sounds out its goodbye,
in its own way a blessing—
the transaction marked kinder
than those signalled by
church bells or school bells.
Tucked in a drawer,
the bell’s flared mouth now mute—
yet it
speaks volumes, resounds.
Mary Dalton’s new poetry collection, Interrobang, was published in September. She lives in St. John’s, Newfoundland.
