Silken tresses trail in the jet-stream.
Clouds like angel wings
That Blake might dream and draw
Drift across the sky.
Climbing up the track by new-sown wheat
Green and neat in regimented rows
I puff frosted breath
Into blue autumnal light.
Above the clouds
Silvery specks leave vapour-trails.
Two lines converge and cross
Scribing a cancellation sign
Vast across the sky,
A vicious double gash as if to say:
"Your angel-fancy we deny,
Thus!
And thus!
Just a Boeing going home,
An airbus passing by,
A layer of thin drift-cloud
That we aircraft over-fly".
The vapour-trails and silver specks have gone.
And still I gaze as angel flocks fly on.
-----------------------------------
18.11.96
R.R.Cretchley
www.thinkingpoet.co.uk
If you died today, are you absolutely certain that you would go to heaven? You can be! TRUST JESUS NOW
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