Is there a quota for mercy?
Do they give it to the younger angels,
take their hands on clear mornings,
and steer them to the edges of clouds
where they can peer over the banks
into the depths of blue beneath.
All our little prayers bubbling up
to be popped by small celestial palms
crumb dusted from the mercy
their mothers have parcelled out
so they can toss it to the mortals below.
And do some of us know the places
to stand on those clear mornings
where the young ones chatter
and rustle their down like tissue.
Which ones crumble mercy to dust
so it falls evenly and ripples far,
the others who wodge their palms
into pebbles that punch through
but settle far too soon.
Who’s voice calls them home.
Mary Mother of God have mercy, mercy on us all
Vertigo & Ghosts by Fiona Benson
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