Bell Tongue

By | 1 July 1998

Shingle under sole, walking over
Silvermine shore with Shelley. She says
with sorrow: ‘I’m not a detail person.’

Ferry to Lantau Island, each of us mistook
the time and destination yet we still meet. Beneath
fog thick as curds, the world’s biggest Buddha.

Japanese tourists snapping approximations:
What may be a leg, the stone petals of a lotus.
Faces in the fog: scissor cuts in pale cloth.

Sightseeing thwarted, the sea gives grace
to a clumsy day, heaviness of stored tears
lifting as we lie in the sand, light receding.

Sky darkening at the edges, old parchment.
Shelley offers the word ‘sonorous’,
the soul’s voice: bell tongue against sound-bow

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