The angel in the flak jacket.
The angel stood tall
The flak jacket black on her glowing, golden skin,
the machine gun glorified
a life newly lost,
A tear
crept
crawling down her cheek,
The child lay at her feet,
Clay coloured skin
Congealing bloody ebony curls,
The appalled angel
a soldier triumphant.
Her body slumped,
his head held high
She held out her hand for the hundredth time that day,
took
the tiny trembling hand,
The angel whispered and the child asked,
“Is heaven a place then,
where you take children
when grown ups have killed them?”
and clinging to her hand,
tearfully, hopeful,
“Is Mummy here too!”
Jesus bent down to take the child
and wept,
his tear tracked face,
love torn,
pierced hands
holding him,
healing his
hurting heart and
the child turned
for the angel, who
already ranging,
reached
another child,
a lifeless body,
a forsaken skeleton,
in a world where
a child’s life is cheap,
and war valued.
by
Hilary Evans