Seeing Angels (Poetry)

They’re in the crowd — those faces with long stares
that track me — find my eyes and hold a thought
freeze-framed in the sudden-parted air —
their strict attention consciously unsought.

What do they want — these seraphs mixed among
the godless bustle of a grimy street —
lone angels playing truant from the throng
of thousands gathered at their father’s feet?

They move like smoke — grey figures slide and weave —
no hurry as they follow a warm scent
of one who might (or might not) disbelieve —
what mission drives their ultimate intent?

I feel those eyes — the pity and the pain
communicates — the instant pinning down
a subtle shift — an insight — soft as rain
keen to cleanse the choked-up heart of town.