Angels In The Darkness

I know there are angels in the darkness
as my boot heels clump loud upon the path.
Eyes blind with moss, wings cracked by frost, they fail
to fly, though I hear cellophane flutter
and smell dead blooms, as cloying as incense,
on the wet clay laden breeze. No marble
mourners move beyond their bounds, no fingers
gloved in foliage reach up to snag clouds
or trace the old inscriptions carved so deep
into the moon's tall headstone. Dressed in black
and white striped jumper, I stalk skeletal
out of the gloom of a graveyard short cut
and make a courting couple scream: coitus
interruptus. The slamming of iron gates.