Chimes hang at the deck
and their soft mallet hammers
deep fluted sounds in triads
while wind grapples motley sky
and fuses its fragments
into on-coming night’s storm.

Beyond french doors
shadows cast valley’s
narrow close in mute show
(palms out, then behind,
over mouth, then over eyes)

and chimes sing
to deep silence
in our room, and sing
to white wisps tickling blue,
and sing to pine trees,
now bright, now dark,
in turn murmuring legato;
crescendo, decrescendo.

Last night I woke
to rain and wind
gossiping on warped panes
about the last cold slanders
of this, our dying winter.

But all through their giggling
and fussing, the chimes sang
resonant and constant as if
never a mistake had been made.


Christopher  Raley

Photo Credit ©C. Raley