Who first decided
the vital part
of all of us
was called a ‘heart’?

Did early man,
with spear and club,
declare his love
with all his ‘ug’?


Content in the luxury
of wall to wall love
we tend, with diligence
to keep the colours bright;
spreading the wear and tear.

Illumined in a shaft of light,
particles from other lives
intrude, swirling around us.
We pass through, wondering
if their dust will spoil the pattern.

© Marion Sharville


Angels come in all shapes and sizes,
every colour and speaking all languages.
They go about performing miracles, daily,
which we take for granted.

The small child who offered an old woman a smile
as she sat on the park bench, in her loneliness
feeling she was invisible to the world.

The bearded Asia gentleman
who stopped to help you so solicitously
when you tripped and fell, restoring your dignity.

And when you were about to cross the road,
the passer-by who delayed you to ask the time
and the oncoming bus did not mow you down.

The villager when offered a drink of water,
though crazed for the need of it, passed it
to a neighbour who was in greater distress.

The person whose encouraging word
and true empathy with your dilemma showed you
the way and set your foot on the right path.

They mingle among us, their wings
neatly folded beneath their cardigans and anoraks,
their feet firmly planted on the ground.

They sprinkle miracles with the dedication
of the good farmer scattering seeds.
We reap the harvest unaware that
we have been touched by angels.

© Marion Sharville

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