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The Lomond Bell ©

A 1200 year-old Celtic bell, which was unearthed in Dumbarton library.

Paul Murdoch
Alexandria, Scotland

The rhythm of the greylag skies is lessened in its wake,
The Celtic bell of bronze that sang so pure.
Its plaintive tone filled pinewood glens
And smeared the blackbird's song.

Enchanted isles, by Christ's own kind
Will resurrect forgotten beauty, so forlorn.
Abandoned to the darkened vaults, it lay
Too long, an age to fill in timeless awe.

We hear it now 'mongst dewy ferns
That littered once-imagined dreams.
The clanging sound of saints and souls
Abandoned now to shouts of far off skies.

Loch Lomond's wizened brow drawn down
By northern winds and teased by bloody Thor.
Swift and deadly, spitting fire at
Nature's holy, lustrous sheen.

Metallic; timeless; linked to God's
Own hand, the chariots of reason
Rap at ancient doors of Grecian
Gods and Celtic beasts of old.

At last the Bell is free to chime
'Mongst nature's carpet green.
With ancient chant and splendid sound
On lochen waves, it drifts through mists of men.

Released to save, and in his love
Revealed to all at last;
This ark-like treasure of our ilk,
That heals the tortured mind and breast.

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