An angel arrived in our town the night before last. He was there when I turned the corner off the Prom. And what a magnificent being he is. All those blades that are now rusting in their exposure to the air and rain. He stops visitors and the townspeople in their tracks. They stand in silence as they read his story. Only one lad said anything in my hearing. ‘Fucking Hell,’ he said, ‘that’s different ain’t it?’ But he had just been passing and had not read about the knives being confiscated by constabularies from across the UK. He didn’t know that it took 4 years to construct. Nor had he seen the compassion in the angel’s eyes and his hands reaching to help, to save, to bless and to forgive.
Driving to Welshpool a young pheasant, as yet un-feathered, dull and pale, ran out into the road in front of us. I hid my eyes. No! I shouted. Did you hit it? I asked. Yes, he said. Silence. There was nothing I could do, he said, there was a car behind me. Poor love. I hope it was instant. He wasn’t so sure.
