A Poem for Judie Anderson
Six Bells

Life started with a brush,
Caressing pigments over fibres
Joined in hands, two became four,
Horns grew life through walls
Sacred milk became six,
Six pairs of hands became eight
The light keeps pouring
Milk over water, water over stone.
Six shifts, six pairs of golden horns
Six plates at six am
The bell rings
Stamping the pigment
The sound rings like a marching band
Printing the daily news
Each letter a historic imprint
The headline “Printers Quit”
Replaced by the blue ghost
The digital machine moves in to take hold.
A hydroponic change brings in a new age
Stacking the cairns in geo formation
Learning quartz and illustrator
Library halls become digital walls
The marching band of the newsroom
Looses its song
Between black ink and micro-chips
The Newsroom quits
The battle of industry and monopoly play
While the last song of the marching band fades
The bell rings at 6am
6 horns, 6 stones and 6 hands
The Indian stands over history
The walk begins
A slow march
As the tectonic plates shift again
The design world appears in a blue screen
Microchips become flies
Silently watching, silently listening
Stamping the stories into history
6 stones, 6 bells, 6 horns ring again
The mighty Sioux patiently stands
The bronze Priestess doesn’t stop moving
Doesn’t stop looking
Paradise in a brush
Taking us to our next shrine
Caressing the pigment of our world
Captured on paper
A comfortable cushion,
A metaphorical moment
The gold horns kept us close.
6 bells, 6 stones and 6 horns.