I walked a way beneath tall trees path thick with fallen leaves and bright with still water where only deer had walked before and stepping in their scrapes of bare black earth where acorns sprout in tender green I walked in the footsteps of giants.
No bells rang here to break up the cloud with silver sound, the echoing notes of rivers flowing beneath earth and rock, weaving veined chords from then to now and beyond.
Sky squatted dark and heavy-jowled on the hill, swallowed moon and stars, and how will we know the time, how measure this great darkness, how know when it has ended?
No bells rang to summon or alarm, but the hart, sharp-hoofed, ran about the house across the weeping grass and leapt the ditch. Fox slipped through a fox hole, while the rain fell cold as an empty seat in an empty house.
No bells rang here, no call to bow the head, only the bull-bellow of the wind that marks the turning of the world from dark to light, and whether tomorrow comes bright or grey as the pits of the sea, the robin will sing in a poplar tree.