Angels at Blythburgh

Every angel is terrible' Rilke

Not these - rough types, parked like jets on the mid-beam's
 guiding cross,
nailed on ancient joists like stiffened birds -
 what is it about them? -
buttoning the rafters, eyeing us still with their big,
 mummy-coffin eyes, old dolls of melancholy lovingkindness?

 Such dodgy foils,
guarding a place at the limits,
 and scarred in the wars -
yet that straight stare disarms us, wins a pause ...
 what in the world?
Watchers, blessers, keepers, their wood-wormy coffers
 measure how far

it is to all of heaven we dream of - bold
...