I Believe in Angels

Once upon a time,
in those days of
‘Mother knows best’,
I found a feather.

She said it fell to earth, fresh
from an angel’s pillow.
When they made their beds,
that was when it snowed.

‘Why didn’t this one melt
like all the rest?’ I asked,
eyes brimful of eager to know.

‘Because,’ she said,
‘For every million that do,
one is special.’

I’d treasured it for years;
then it got lost in the mists
of growing up, when I stopped
believing in ghosts...
and angels

till one afternoon,
when the distant whine
of cicadas – slowed
to match the mood
of that day...

standing in a porch –
filled with flowers,
outside a small, grey church
I found it again

in the pocket of my skirt;
then, as now – soft
as a kiss, and held it
between my thumb
and finger,

as upwards it flew
on the breath
once was her.