End of days 1

Dawn greets us as we reach the brow of the hill – and not just the sunrise but the angel herself, golden hair shimmering, gaze like fire, but in a moment dispersing into the morning mist and a coda of birdsong.

I hold up my hand to bring a halt to the columns and we stand there, looking out over the ruins of the city, its mangled towers of iron and shattered glass forming a distant half-shrouded horizon. Somewhere below, beyond a desert of railway tracks and industrial estates, the enemy host is gathering. We are far outnumbered but we have God’s anger like thunder in our wake and this flaming sword like lightning to go before.

These moments feel no less unearthly than the time the changes began, when the world twisted in on itself in its final death throes. This army looks to me now but all I can think about is you, wondering where you are now and whether I will ever hold you again under the falling stars. And all I can do is whisper these words and hope that the wind will carry them one day to you. If it does, say a prayer for me.