It Is The Sinners' Dust-Tongued Bell

It is the sinners' dust-tongued bell claps me to churches When, with his torch and hourglass, like a sulpher priest, His beast heel cleft in a sandal, Time marks a black aisle kindle from the brand of ashes, Grief with dishevelled hands tear out the altar ghost And a firewind kill the candle. Over the choir minute I hear the hour chant: Time's coral saint and the salt grief drown a foul sepulchre And a whirlpool drives the prayerwheel; Moonfall and sailing emperor, pale as their tide-print, Hear by death's accident the clocked and dashed-down spire Strike the sea hour through bellmetal. There is loud and dark directly under the dumb flame, Storm, snow, and fountain in the weather of fireworks, Cathedral calm in the pulled house; Grief with drenched book and candle christens the cherub time From the emerald, still bell; and from the pacing weather-cock The voice of bird on coral prays. Forever it is a white child in the dark-skinned summer Out of the font of bone and plants at that stone tocsin Scales the blue wall of spirits; From blank and leaking winter sails the child in colour, Shakes, in crabbed burial shawl, by sorcerer's insect woken, Ding dong from the mute turrets. I mean by time the cast and curfew rascal of our marriage, At nightbreak born in the fat side, from an animal bed In a holy room in a wave; And all love's sinners in sweet cloth kneel to a hyleg image, Nutmeg, civet, and sea-parsley serve the plagued groom and bride Who have brought forth the urchin grief.