There’s an angel at the top of our stairs,
scattering seeds amongst a flock of
white doves by the light of a candle
held aloft like the statue of liberty.
I don’t believe in angels, not this type
anyway and besides, I thought they were
male, and seem to have missed the moment
they underwent gender re-assignment.
My angels aren’t bathed in white raiment
and fixed in a celestial hover, instead
they stare out from fading photographic
paper, no less vigilant by their absence,
and marking my every move, judging
each decision, sharing the pain
and the joy in equal measure, tamping
the ground ahead and lighting the way.
John H Davies
8th February 2011
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