When the talk is of angels
it’s tempting to think of them on the cold lake

small swan-shaped slivers of ice.                       

They are superbly processional
gliding in front of an invisible carriage.

Or moving across a linen sky
as though a single loose thread

is being pulled to a pucker
from somewhere beyond the horizon.

But they play-act their dignity
to suit the task at hand

which is to placate
our watching expectations.

You know this because they sometimes slip
                into momentary awkwardness.

The propellers of their feet
as they attempt to launch

do not push smoothly upwards
from the surface but slap

like the frenzied paddles of a waterwheel.

And their cries are absurd:
                                half bugle, half air brake.

But the biggest giveaway of all
is how one shadow, then another, and another
                                                                passes low overhead.

That feathered line of underbelly darkness
the huge warump, warump of wings.

The soul we do not believe in, suddenly
                                believes in us, and flutters in terror.

And we are as helpless as any creature 
                                who, not paying enough attention
                                                has stumbled into another creature’s myth.

Thumbnail image: Swan. Mikhail Vrubel, 1901