Today I wrote a poem

Heard someone
call your name
in a crowded market, Angel.

“Angel!”
they cried in vain.
“Has anyone seen
my little girl?”

There must be some mistake.
Not her child that was lost –
but mine.

Then I realise. Only then
it hits me. Fifty-two
you’d be by this time.

So cruel I’ll never know
the colour of your hair,
or if your eyes were brown
or blue.

They told me not to look
when you were born.
They, who disposed of you
like yesterday’s papers.

Heard someone
call your name
in a crowded market, Angel.

“Angel!”
they cried in vain.
“Has anyone seen
my little girl?”

But they hadn’t.
Nor had I.

I wrote a poem, called,
“Angels Don’t Die”.
Oh, but they do ...
Wrapped up
in the Evening News.