Emerging from the spotlight glare,

I watched, enraptured, spooked by the divine,

the whispering ghost of poetry, of words

teased out and song like, capturing the mood,

capturing the daylight pulse, sweetly tempered

by a trumpet which plays in the ether

and calls to the angels, they have to find room

somewhere, for here on Earth, it seems one

has escaped and sinks her blush free lips into

a mortal man’s vision, tasting it in her mouth,

tasting it go round and round, sideways

she chews it over, relishing the genius

which she admires, which she senses

the love struck, not quite so dumb

for a mere mortal foil and man

as not to be talkative; I watch the angel,

as she clears her throat and polishes

the harp in her voice, singing

songs of yester eve, the poet

is dead, long since rejected,

but she… but she makes him whole

and ready to be loved in the soil

again.

 

Ian D. Hall 2018