The halfways
In the halfways
paths of men and angels intertwine.
Where space is not space, and time not quite time,
we map our lives, would we but know.
A glance of light in a wood that is not light,
a shadow in darkness that is not shade,
a colour, a chill, an unaccounted smile,
a random thought, in these we meet.
Walking the halfways, our hands are held
each other's and the angels',
our links once made are always fast
for good or ill, would we but know.
We choose our paths,
the landscape is ours to make or break.
The men and angels always hear,
but who shall listen?
© Paul McCombie 2005-6