Gillie Bolton

For Berlie

A rustle on the window
like a shower of sparks;
Cat snuggles deeper
in the hollow of my body.
But I look:

wings - dozens of them,
beating and beating
the sky boiling with their blackness.

I open the window,
reach for the branch of the apple tree,
and swing out.
Cat, uncurled now,
clings sharp claws
into my shoulder.

All around us - warm bodies
warm horse breath panting and snorting
wings beating on angels' backs
wings beating on horses' backs,
black as Cat.

And then - up and away,
Cat clinging
to a flowing mane,
her tail up like a flag, me behind her,
wings above us,
wings behind us, wings below us,
flashing hooves, shod with silver;
the ripple of black muscle,
and an angel's hand on my shoulder,
steadying,

Above the rooftops, above the trees,
above the moor,
until the clouds stretch out below
a blanket to catch us if we fall -
but the angel keeps a hand on my shoulder -
steadying.

The winged horses snort,
wheel, turn,
and - silence. Stillness.

Then singing

and lights, star-sparklers,
thrown by the angels
up and up even higher than the sky -
millions of stars -

stardawn.

Then - wings like umbrellas -
we drift down quietly,
quietly over the tor,
down towards the dark square of my window
beyond the apple tree.

The angel brushes one dark wing-tip
over my eyes, the winged horse whinnies -
and they're gone.
Cat smiles,
curled up on my quilt
in the crook of my body.

Gillie Bolton
If we fall Acumen Literary Journal. 1999 No 34 May