Clive Culverhouse Poet Narrative

Rain of Glowing Angels

if it wasn't for the fact I would be dead
in less than a minute, I would always be in awe
at the sight of a thousand fire-tipped arrows
arching and downing like fireflies in sparkled warmth
lit like stars against the night sky

I never tired of such a sight
I…

then I died
again

as ever, life up to that point held harshness 
in my trappings, my prison of wild openness, 
the hills, the grasslands of my people, thatching roofs
and weaving wools, making bread and raking soils
a day singing to the backdrop of hammering
from the smiths, these scenes so familiar
these days, always days

then the baron's called as they usually did about now
and men took arms, heading into the tunnel
and with many of my folk
I would die under an intoxicating rain
of glowing angels

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