Angels have got into churches
all over the county:
climbing the ancient walls
they beam brightly and carry hammers
They look down on our flimsy worship
as if nonplussed,
somehow restraining themselves
and we look back
holding our strange grey books
singing uneven songs
safeguarding the saints
in odd ways
We do not reach up,
they do not reach down:
it is an impasse
Angels should live in trees