The Angel

The Angel

Sometimes the boulder is rolled away,
but I cannot move it when
I want to. An angel must. Shall
I ever see the angel's face,
or will there always only be
that molten glow outlining every
separate hair and feathered quill,
the sudden wind and odour, sunlight,
music, the pain of my bruised shoulders.

- Ruth Fainlight

To illustrate this poem, I initially I chose a photo of an angel wind chime hanging in my garden, but upon closer reading of the poem, it didn't fit the description of this angel at all - it was a cutesy little cherub - not at all the kind of angel who could roll away the stone, whether it be a physical or emotional one.

So I decided to use a feather as the fleeting impression of an angel. This white feather has been with me since I was in England for Mum's funeral. In fact it is a bit like the grief I feel - it comes and goes like "the sudden wind and odour, sunlight, music, the pain of my bruised shoulders" - a fleeting sense of loss and sadness.