Barbara Daniels
'The Possibility of Angels'
(Derek Walcott)
Perhaps the wind has wiped away their prints,
their heel-marks from the sand - and in the air
above the coast of St. Lucia, hints
of feathered spaces flicker here, there, there.
Gulls or white sanderlings could trick an eye
too willing to believe. That emptiness
within the heart, transferred to earth or sky
demands a seraph, sends an S.O.S.
An island is an Eden but the snake
wriggles inside a green, aspiring mind:
a little hiss of worlds elsewhere can make
or break you: "Leave that paradise behind!"
You too have feet to stay and wings to go,
apples to eat. As you stand on the cliff,
look seawards, angel; only men are slow
at taking off, weighted by 'but' and 'if'.
Page(s) 19
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