After crossing the grey Austrian alps,
and viewing the white medieval church
near the top of the cold pass,
we came down into
what seemed a palmed paradise,
warm Italy around a blue still lake
by an old town, edged with cliffs,
altars to Mary and her child
cut in
hundreds of feet up.

In the next morning's first light
shining through open windows
I heard the church bell's first strikes ringing
amidst the birdsong, and imagined
the carvers climbing once more the cliffs
with the ringing echoing.

A burnished overtone started to glow
above the deep belling,
like spirits over a statue
and then, soaked up by sound
the ringer and the ringing disappeared,
only the high rich single sounding
remained, unwavering, hovering
singing without breath
a perfect radiating, shining
high pure note
holding time
close to it.

You say
All the world is like this,
every single thing is
one thing
sounding
from me.

Ian Trousdell

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/nature-an-italian-bell/