The Night Angels of the Cake Factory Cream Room

They have travelled far, these angels -

not to circle heaven’s spheres or trumpet God’s work

but to stand on a production line piping cream into

   fillets of choux.

Somewhere, in a coastal town, three grand dames

prepare afternoon tea. A box of eclairs rests in the fridge.

Side plates (the best ones) are assembled next to a one-bar

   electric fire.

The hands that piped the cream, that lined

the pastry with sweet caramel, chocolate and jam,

were fashioned in Bucharest, Brasov, Tirana,

   Gdansk.

In their white hazmat suits you might mistake

these angels for scientists because cream

is precious: cross contamination must be avoided wherever

   possible.

The night angels chatter in native tongues,

shout over the conveyor belt in tightly

broken English. The factory’s rattle

   and wheeze,

the cooling fans’ constant drone, inhibits

something important: clarity, perhaps, or a sense

of belonging; the appearance of acceptance where

   none is due.

The three grand dames take their seats in time

for The Archers. Erith, Skelmersdale, Lutterworth,

Wakefield: the angels’ handiwork, once loaded onto lorries,

   travels far.

How delicious they taste, these heavenly

eclairs! How delicately the treats are savoured,

as if bestowed, like a gift, from celestial beings

   above.