Soul-song

The wind batters us
and all you can see is an angel.
You speak mercy
and it smacks of death.
Relief to you is the tolling bell,
the bronze and brass of seraph horns.
Never the healer in white.
Never the pupil in black.
The wing stings our eyes
but your gaze only falls from halos —
light and glory honed dagger-sharp.
You keep your blade pointed low.
It gathers no blood until it falls.