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