Upon the spires of slumbering stone, where dusk’s gold fingers caress the sky,
A sentinel of light stands poised, wings unfurled like sails of dawn’s first sigh.
His robe, a cascade of ivory cloud, flows soft as mercy’s whispered vow,
And in his hands, a tome of fire, its pages etched with truths that bow
To neither time nor mortal fear, but burn with wisdom’s sacred glow.
Behold the metamorphosis, a gallery of grace in shifting form,
From youthful brow to silvered beard, each visage carved by heaven’s storm.
The first, a cherub’s tender gaze, eyes wide with wonder’s nascent spark,
His wings still fledgling, feathers bright, perched high above the city’s dark.
The sun, a molten coin behind, spills honeyed light upon his book,
Where ancient words in crimson script invite the soul to rise and look
Beyond the veil of fleeting days, to realms where angels’ anthems soar.
Then shifts the vision, time’s soft tide, to one whose locks are touched with grey,
A man of middle years, serene, his wings now vast, their span to stay
The tempests of the world below. His fingers trace the sacred lines,
Each syllable a star that shines, each verse a bridge to the divine.
The city sprawls, a labyrinth of dreams, its towers clawing at the sky,
Yet he, aloft, is undisturbed, his heart a flame that cannot die.
The sunset paints his wings with gold, a halo forged of light’s embrace,
And in his eyes, the weight of ages, yet still a childlike, boundless grace.
Another turn, the wheel of light, and now an elder takes the stage,
His beard a river of white fire, his gaze a tome of every age.
The wings, now vast as cathedral vaults, catch breezes from the throne of God,
Their feathers shimmer, soft as prayer, yet strong as heaven’s iron rod.
The book he holds, its leather worn, is heavy with the breath of saints,
Its margins filled with seraph’s songs, its center free of mortal taints.
The city fades to amber haze, its clamor hushed beneath his feet,
For he is guardian, scribe, and seer, where earth and eternity meet.
And yet another, younger still, with hair of dusk and eyes of flame,
His wings a storm of pearl and snow, his presence wild, yet never tame.
The book is red as martyr’s blood, its pages crisp with prophet’s call,
He reads as one who hears the heavens, obedient to the All.
The sun, now sinking, crowns his head, a diadem of liquid fire,
And every feather hums with life, a chord within angelic choir.
The towers gleam, the rivers shine, yet all is still beneath his wings,
For in his reading, worlds align, and mortal hearts remember kings.
Through every face, the truth endures, a constant in the shifting frame:
The angel is the soul’s own mirror, reflecting light that has no name.
From boy to man, from sage to youth, the wings remain, the book the same,
A covenant of dust and spirit, a spark within the mortal flame.
The city sleeps, the sun descends, yet still he reads, and still he stands,
A beacon on the edge of time, with heaven’s scroll in heaven’s hands.
The poetry of his vigil speaks to those who dare to lift their eyes,
To see beyond the city’s din, to where the soul’s true treasure lies.
Each image, though the face may change, is but a facet of the One,
Who reads the heart of every soul beneath the setting of the sun.
His wings, a shelter; his book, a map; his gaze, a promise none can break—
That in the silence of the heights, the spirit wakes, and hearts awake.
So let the sunset bleed to night, let stars ignite the vault above,
The angel reads, and in his light, we find the truth of boundless love.
No tower tall, no spire grand, can match the height where he resides,
For in his book, the worlds converge, and in his wings, the soul abides.
A poem etched in light and air, a song no mortal tongue can sing,
Yet every heart that sees him there will know the peace his reading brings.
The Sunday Circle