Angel Poem by Roy Ballard

The sun itself would seem to burn less bright
if we lacked words to praise it: 'Queen of Light'
effulgence, glorious Mistress of the Day'
these cannot flatter Ruth; they'll not convey
a pittance of her grace. I shall despair
to milk all languages of words and fail at last
to fit them to the truth for she surpassed
my power of tongue to tell. I can but say
that once upon a meadow-sweetened day
she walked, as lightly as her flowing hair
flaunted its golden filaments new spun
of precious metal in the summer sun,
towards the Vicarage where in a frieze
of owl-enchanted pines and sombre oak
beyond the clover fields and tumbling bees,
among cascading roses and sweet peas,
was held a party for the County Folk.

Her party hat she carried and a wand,
a budding shoot with one exotic bloom
of preternatural beauty, on a frond
new-flown from some far isle where great waves boom
and crush the coral reef to tingling sands.
The fairest flowers flourish on these strands
where on a favoured eve, the sea at peace,
bold Aphrodite tiptoes from the moon's
long, quavering light upon the wide lagoon's
night-blackened face to savour such delight
and fragrances and sigh such sweet alarms
as an immortal finds in mortal arms.

But now, upon a racing half a mile,
young James and Lucy canter on a chase,
arriving breathless at the very place
where Ruth, the sun behind her, climbs a stile.
The ponies start, the children stare amazed
at fire-ringed Ruth; as if a sacred bell
had sounded and a magic halo blazed
upon the goddess stepping from the wave.
Upon the hush she smiles to break the spell,
says sorry for her undesigned surprise
but every word she utters seems to wring
enchantment from the empty air, to bring
fresh adoration to their rounded eyes,
expectant wonder without trace of guile.
Suppressing laughter though she can but smile
she gives the stem she carries to the girl
and magically the costly buds unfurl.

They hurry home 'An angel spoke to us'
'Hush, children! Why, whatever is the fuss?
They're not unusual in the month of May
upon the Common. Baby is asleep'
'But Mum, she gave her magic wand away'
They show the flowers. There are certain deeps
where banded snakes and coral fishes swim
in colours wonderful indeed but dim
compared with one of these. I do not care
to count the colours that the flowers wear,
perfection has no maps; creating them
has justified Creation. So! Amen!

A few years pass; the trio meet again
at Lucy's wedding. Telling how and when
they met before Ruth horrifies the bride;
the story is indignantly denied
'It was an angel. How could it be you?
She walked out of the sun' James thought so too.