The Angel

Those below 
do not realise that when they breath

when they utter even the softest of whispers

that I rise upon the thermals of their words,

that I climb ever upwards on their sentences,

let fall my pledges to the earth

and dance when they sigh.

Sometimes one who is more attentive

becomes aware of my passing;

a soft flow of air, the merest zephyr betrays me.

Sometimes as I rise I pass one at prayer, 

or in quiet meditation.

Briefly our paths cross:

fellow travellers in the same airy spaces.

But mostly those below remain unaware

when I plummet in a cascade of light.

Becoming, in the last shard of time, 

fluid as water 

and our beings merge.

Painting by William Baxter Closson