In the land of angels, the ground is made of marble. The sky is full of shifting clouds of white and gold, metallic paint spilled and swirled in a glass of milk. The clouds sing like wind sighing over bottle necks. Great and hushing accompaniment to the celestial. Sometimes rain falls from the dancing sky.
Drops trace their way to the ground. Filling curves in the stonework. Sculpture of the afterlife. Or the waiting life. Suspension?
Skyfall fills the basins. Places to cleanse. Sluice away the earth and the pain and the mortal.
Wings of swans can break a man’s leg. Wings of Angels can do so much more, terrible.
Lie supported and lie surrounded by the rain. Shallows are safe. No depths of unknown below, all that soars above. Out of reach. For now.
Mark your way across the eternal quarry. Or stay and listen to the heaving and leaping sound than awakens across sky.