The Departure

The bombshell delivered, then abandoned
In stunned, albeit temporary, silence,
Unable to articulate what is being conceived,
Stunned by the thought that the groaning cosmos
Might somehow be divinely recreated within her
And starting but not ending in her own world
On a South London patio with its crazy paving
Of higgledy-piggledy jig-sawed incompleteness
Which fools rush in to right while this angel dares
To slip away and deliver the neighbour’s mail
Though with regret for the maiden deserted
Beneath an English oak which is no pipal tree,
Until dawning erupts in magnified magnificence
Which this angel will not hear.
July 2012

On viewing Carel Weight’s painting:
The Departing Angel
© Royal Academy of Arts, London;
Photographer: John Hammond

'I am the Lord’s servant,' Mary answered. 'May your word to me be fulfilled.'
Then the angel left her.

Luke 1:38