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And while with silent lifting mind I’ve trod
The high, untrespassed sanctity of space
Put out my hand and touched the face of God.
                                                    John Gillespie Magee 1922 – 41

Late afternoon, sitting outside my cottage
feathered fingers of the tree next door point upwards.
A collared dove soars from its topmost branch
like a blessing descending.
I stare into the richness of the clear-blue August sky
seeking the sanctity of space.

Dusk -lit the tree next door drapes its silhouette
across crystal dimming heavens, expressionless.
Imperceptibly
the evening star shines.

I watch the lights of a plane
furrowing the brow of heaven.
Perhaps only a pilot praying in war torn fear
is privileged to see the face of God?

Night gathers, I gaze into the growing deep, blue- dark,
observing the lonely planet rising above the tree,
now an uncertain ghost.
Stars emerge glitter by glitter.
Earthbound I see angels;
host upon host of fiery eyed folk
fixed in the gentle movement of time and space.
Messengers and guardians
aeons beyond any pilot’s touch.

I light candles in the courtyard
infinitesimal pinpricks of earth light;
but I am certain that the angels will see them
and know that I am watching them
watching me.

Night black, ghosts gone,
plane lights that last only the span of a pilot’s life.
Meanwhile the shining planet slips below the horizon,
and I commune with countless angels
Peace-bright.

© Anne Lovejoy, August 2009