Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

In the sixth century, St Dyfrig encountered the Archangel Michael on top of Skirrid Fawr at a spot later marked by a chapel.

He is still walking up its northern flank,
wearing sackcloth secured by a belt.
His sandals, too, are of leather,
made by a brother monk. He does not know
the purpose of his visit, only that in a dream
he was told to make the ascent
through bracken and over sheep-cropped grass.
A circling buzzard keeps him in its sights,
upheld by thermals. At the summit he stops, cooled
by breezes that dry his forehead’s sweat.
Nothing but the view rewards his gaze.
Here, beyond the sight of lesser men, he strolls
at last, his tired muscles easing as he proceeds.
And there, resplendent in a shift, stands
the Archangel. They approach to within
ten feet. The buzzard sheers off with a sense of purpose
and the wind drops. Just beyond Michael
a hang-glider adjusts his goggles, and prepares
to launch himself into the unknown:
time itself, that inscrutable medium
which keeps these men in different millennia
though in the same locale.
Near Great Triley Farm, a mile to the west,
a Land Rover waits:
its driver focuses the airman through high-
resolution binoculars as he soars
above his receding shadow. The saint kneels
to kiss the Archangel’s feet. In return
a blessing is given, and an injunction
to construct a prayer-cell on this mountain.
Yet he is still walking up its northern flank,
wearing sackcloth secured
by a belt. He does not know
 the purpose of his visit, only that in a dream
he was told to make the ascent
through bracken and over sheep-cropped grass.