Angels write in poetry, Demons write in prose

As I lie beneath the blanket
Of a heavy Devon sky
That has breached its secret contract
With the local weatherman
And begun to bleed
Cool drops of rain across Exeter,
My mind wanders off to unearthly things,

I imagine Heaven and Hell,
Heaven where the saints and angels
Move through gardens
Rich with tame animals and wildflowers,
And sit in all their joy
Writing spinning lines of poetry
More beautiful than they, the poets, themselves,

And Hell where demons and sinners
Are locked in constant torture,
In windowless rooms,
The demons bored of the dark
The sinners terrified by it,
And there they stay, strewn across broad floors
Writing unending and uncomfortable blocks of prose