Masked Native

The Christmas Angel

Abandoned to briars and dry grass,

she lay in a rain sodden cardboard box,

her wings a mess of broken feathers,

a single tear speck on her cheek,

her pearly necklace hanging careless on the

fading pink of her dress and white satin underskirt

collecting country dirt.

Yellow Gorse flowered above, its scent of coconut

too remote to gather into her shabby box,

thrown perhaps like litter from a passing car.

I wondered if I should rescue her but

Caution came between us so

I stood her upright to face the road

and kept on walking.

Next day, remorse found me

with rubber gloves, plastic bag and

rucksack to carry her in and once home,

her angel wings removed, I soaked her in a

bucket of warm water and disinfectant,

quietly pleased with my efforts. 

I kept her for a few days but

something didn’t feel right.

I hadn’t thought it through.

What if she was left as a memorial

like some folk might do.

I returned her to the country bed,

laid her gently beneath the gorse and

pledged to rescue no more.

She was just a doll after all, 

but to my eyes,

she was a Christmas Angel in disguise.