To Vanished Angels Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Trees can look after themselves- they do that very well,
Even when there is lighting,
And the grandmothers have all passed away;
And the carriages have wrecked down so far beneath the glaciers,
And they’ve spilled out their pornographies:
And the conquistadors have eaten themselves: and what
They did not finish, the wolves have finished,
And now the table is set with silverware, and the fairytale
Princes’ hair is golden,
But she doesn’t care about the singing of such mines: she has lit
Right out of here,
Her birthstone an empty basket at picking time;
And the mountains groan from the indecisions of their loneliness,
And they stop up clouds and delay then for awhile just to encourage
Tears to flow from the forlorn viaducts which attribute themselves
To vanished angels,
So that fountain spring from their summits, and plummet like
Promises through their perilous keyholes.