Outside a hidden foundry
The iron angel drew me to her
Magnetic gaze,
Empty eyes fastened on mine.

Metal feathers so finely beaten,
Their cold, hard touch
A surprise.
Looking soft and warm,
I could almost hear
Adjustments of feathers,
Preening and shaking
Into alignment,
Into place

Uncoloured,
Natural rusting and tempering
Had given the angel sheens,
Brown, silver, grey and rust red.
Yet I cannot truly say
What colours they were
Probably a heavenly mix
Of shading, of grading
Too fine for me,
Too difficult to place the words
Accurately.

Set up near the great church,
I imagine its wings
Spread golden in a setting sun,
Its empty eyes fixed on me
As I stand and gaze

Remembering
My first vision,
My first amazed gasp.
The feathered wings,
Then as now,
About to wrap me within them.
Pulling me close,
Stopping my breath,
Closing my eyes.

By Richard Maslen (click to go back)

Richard has also written an article about The Blythburgh Angel and how it was created.

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