Wind Farm Angels

I'll never forget my first sighting:
one alone, on a distant hill
- they prefer hills. There was no wind
that day, none at all, and it stood
quite still. Its top arm, pointing
at the sky, blended into its body:
it was just this tall streak of white.
The two other arms stretched out
left and right, like the statue of Christ
in Rio harbour. That was how I knew
it was an angel. That, and the calm
that came off it. It didn't speak
or make a move: it just was,
intensely, and I felt better for it,
which is what they do, right?

After that, I looked out for them,
that sudden grace on the skyline,
whenever there seemed no point
in anything. One windy day, watching
a group of three, I realised they were talking,
not just in gesture language, but a murmur,
low, on one note. I couldn't tell
if they meant it only for each other
or for me too. I heard it in my head
long after. I'd switch off from chat,
traffic, muzak, and it was there.

I've noticed, lately, they don't talk
so loud. Even watching a whole flock,
I have to strain to hear. Folk complained
- would you believe - about the noise,
so now they whisper. And some people
want them gone. I couldn't face that,
not now. I've got used to that presence,
that white embrace, being there
when I need it. I know all their haunts.
To think I might climb those hills one day
and find them empty.


Sheenagh Pugh