The Angel, by Ruth Fainlight

Went around THREE churches today, looking for angels for this poem - and found loads of every description - never realised there were so many, both inside and out. This one, from an 1885 Charles Eamer Kempe window in St Mary's in Dymock, won because he is the Archangel Michael (my husband's name), and because he was wearing golden armour and looked like he might be as beautiful and fearsome as the poem seems to imply - his cloak is lined with pearls and peacock feathers,and the dragon at his feet is smiling slyly. (We DO, however, see his face.)

Sometimes the boulder is rolled away,
but I cannot move it when
I want to. An angel must. Shall
I ever see the angel's face,
or will there always only be
that molten glow outlining every
separate hair and feathered quill,
the sudden wind and odour, sunlight,
music, the pain of my bruised shoulders.

Shame the shoulder has to be bruised with the fruitless effort of trying to move the stone - but then again, maybe it's only then that the angel comes?? So many boulders that need moving in my life - do I keep struggling, or just wait for the angel??

On a totally different note, had this afternoon, possibly the best scone I have ever had, in the Hunky Dory Cafe in Ross-on-Wye. It was so light and huge, and heart shaped, and filled with lavender, piled high with cream and my favourite jam - blackcurrant, and served with a massive pot of tea - perfection.