The Angel In The Barn Poem by David Lewis Paget

It’s hot, by God! - in Warranar,
It’s hot, too hot by far,
The sun leers down from a barren sky
To scorch the where-you-are!

The ground is hard, burnt dry within,
The snakes curl up and die,
And trees take on a crippled shape
As birds fall out of the sky!

The farm is dead, six months a year,
Brown earth and endless dust,
It never rains! Why do we stay?
Despair says that we must!

One night I lay all bathed in sweat,
A hot wind seared the plain,
I seemed to hear some scraping sound,
Then thought: ‘Could this be rain? ’

Outside the moon had shed its light
All pale and gold on brown,
The iron door on the rusty barn
Then fell, came crashing down.

And so it was I saw the wings
Dragged slowly through the hay,
Some giant bird inside the barn,
Some giant bird of prey!

I took the rifle off the wall,
Walked slowly through the dark,
A shape lay on a bale of straw
I aimed! – The shape said: ‘Hark!

I have not come to punish you,
Please put the gun away! ’
The voice was like a silvery bell
On the back of a bullock dray.

I edged in closer to the bird
And saw its wings were fine,
But underneath lay a slip of a girl
With lips as red as wine!

And blood showed on her pallid cheek,
Her arm lay twisted, torn,
I tried to help her up, she cried:
‘No! Leave me here, it’s warm! ’

‘I’ll stay until my arm is healed,
I’ll not get in your way! ’
But I was caught in a fevered dream
That told of her dismay!

And love swept through my blighted soul
As the days and the weeks went by,
I seemed to float, as in a dream
I heard my Angel cry.

‘I fell from out the sky, ’ she said,
‘One day, as dark as this,
A single word from a thoughtless soul,
A blow from an angry fist! ’

‘So evil lurks where Angels roam,
You fight these devils still? ’
‘There is no good, nor evil there,
But man, his twisted will! ’

‘Then why does God make Warranar
So hot, so lost in pain,
The trees cry out in their torture here,
And the ground, it bleeds for rain! ’

‘Perhaps it’s not your God to blame,
Perhaps you send your spell
To the Dark Knight on the Horse of Fire,
Perhaps you writhe in Hell? ’

I woke in bed, all soaked in sweat
And staggered out to the barn,
All that lay was a dead sheep
With a coat that hadn’t been shorn.

I walked away from Warranar
From my dry and barren farm,
And the love I’d seen in a dead sheep,
My Angel in the barn!