The Bells

The church bells toll as the storm descends.
Shanty Town is shrouded with snow.
Crystal castles, and other fairytale marvels,
cover the ramshackle houses, shabby store fronts,
clap trap shelters, toppling tenements.
The dreary mill atop the hill, glitters in the maelstrom
like a diaphanous dream dome (afloat in a cloudland).
Shape shifting spirits dance off the drifts,
fly with the flurries, twirl and pirouette.
Even the shacks and shanties, the rickety sheds,
conjure up post cards cottages and nativity scenes.
I bundle through the blizzard, bowed against the swirl,
a fragile ghost in a dream, beckoned by the bells.