When I was an ordinary person I did extraordinary things
And could not understand why I had done them.
When I became an angel what I did was very ordinary
And I did not need to question why the events took place.
It was in a small chapel on top of a hill,
When I was younger we camped in the fields beyond.
I can remember fresh caught river trout fried in butter.
I can remember learning to love the darkness among the trees.
Then there was the causeway flooded by the sea,
So that the island was cut off between tides.
Years later the hills still call out to me,
“Why do you not return to your home ?”
A ceremony in a ruined church,
An empty window rising from the grass and framing the sky,
Men in mitres with silk vestments, incense, candles
Fluttering in the wind, filled with the cries of seagulls.
Breaking free was the hardest thing,
Separating from my isolation, entering our boundless self.
