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Making the Angels by Imtiaz Dharker

A tumbling of angels;
A frenzy of wings, churning
air, turning the world
on a rare somersault;
sounds stripped bare
on the clatter of stars that spin
against the web of night,
brightness-torn. This
is a time to be born.

This, the maker’s moment of play.
“Today,” he says, “I will make
angels.” And there
they are, triumphant, air-
tossed, a little breathless,
sun trapped in their hair
and wings as they struggle to fly:
A host of fledgling angels, spat
like grape-seed, out
of a newmade, unsuspecting sky.

(This was once the Independent’s Daily Poem, and I copied it to keep).

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