Iron Clad Angel
She hauls the Hurrier’s tub.
Her wings rubbed by a worn leather harness,
Curved tips ready to enfold the muscled Hewer.
Suddenly, pushed up from mined seams;
She is released from dark depths.
She bathes in glimpsed sunlight and stretches her metal plumage;
She prepares to soar; to leave the ripped, burst earth once more;
But she is bound to this desolate place,
Once black gleaming rock resounded with a clarion call,
Now tinny tannoys compel in the cavernous consumer hell.
And the iron clad angel now stacks supermarket shelves.
Her oversized wings unfurled,
Curved tips ready to embrace desperate shoppers.
Tethered for a hundred years; this foundry seraph longs to take flight.
Her wings strain seeking out warm currents to rise;
Above these dark skies.
But she is anchored to solid rock.
Transitioning from ship and pit to
Call centre and shopping mall;
Fallen angel marks the grave,
Of the blood stained glories of the industrial age.
When the fierce winds of climate change,
Free the iron clad angel from earthly chains.
What will mark post-industrial remembrance?
Maureen is a graduate of our BA in English Studies and is now a student on our MA in Creative Writing.