Imelda Maguire  

Gabriel's Children
after Luka Bloom

We come to now, our forties,

and suddenly, angels matter again.
Our children are the cynics
and we look where we can for guardians.

I hear you call Gabriel, and the name

is beautiful to me; a pale trace
of wings on the edge of my vision;
an intimation of light in the air.

Long ago, when I first knew you,

between rounds of lectures and coffee-shop,
were we looking for angels then?
Searching without knowing the name?
Were we always Gabriel's children?

Sadrat'ul-Muntahà (Tree of Life)

My thoughts are restless evening rooks,
circling, wheeling,
coming to rest only in the tree of you.


You are every tree the earth
has ever cast from her womb,
calling me to rest a cheek on warm bark.


I wake, a sweet taste of green in my mouth.
You are the one tree
that cast five seeds.


Now, half-way through July,
everyone bemoans this grey dullness;
because this year we did not dance


in midsummer's light,
because we lit no bonfire,
darkness will fall earlier.


The lazy moth of morning
hiding from the light, seeking darkness.
I crumble it in my fingers,
rub its silver on my cheeks.


When all five seeds
have taken to the soil,
then will there be a blossoming.


The chanting flowers
will sing the song of that one tree.
That Tree of Life
will call me, soothe me, lull me to sleep,
black wings folded against the night.