The Impatience of Angels

by Beth McDonough

As seen in a pair of brass figures ‘removed  from Hoy Low during modernisation of the lighting equipment', Stromness Museum.

Try not to be fooled by our Art Nouveau aspect,
all those diaphanous garments,
concealing, revealing just enough
of the answers to the usual glanced questions
concerning the gender of angels.

Note we've not chosen an at ease contraposta,
we're upright, held to attention.
Our long wings have already unfolded
as utterly gallus uncompromised sails,
rigged out for head winds over Hoy.

Yes, one pinion was snapped in removal, flitting
or transit perhaps, but please observe
how those feet have conveniently lost
all earthly hold, as was first carved
into the maker's lost casting wax.

No need to diss these as mere ringlets -
we're rocking untied Viking plaits,
loosened to collar-bone length.
Our haloes are practical bunnets. Nothing dares
weight us, or bend our brass necks.

The Keepers no longer require our protection,
but check our deceptively casual fists
we grasp long trumpets, and trust us -
we may be the first to hear your Parousia.
We can roar news, blast on Orcadian gales.