Colin F. Jones
Angels dwell in books and in the mind,
Guarding those with faith and who are blind.
They stood the corners of my infant bed,
For that was what my mother often said.
Images of seraphs played a part,
They all had wings drawn in the painter’s art,
Yet none appeared to me nor shadow cast,
That they in time just faded into past.
Yet if Angels do exist then two I knew,
My mother and my father were those two,
For none more worthy of angelic name,
Could glow in heavens fire a warmer flame
For Angels form from dedicated love,
To guide the crow that it becomes a dove.
©Copyright August 10, 2011 by Colin F. Jones