My grandmother spoke about angels;
they stood at the foot of my bed.
They counted the sins of the daylight;
they counted the sins in my head.
They glared as I crept beneath bedclothes,
sought solace from teddies and dolls.
But they knew of the time when I ate all the sweets;
the time when I drew on the walls.
The time when I farted, blamed Great Uncle Ted,
who seemed unconcerned by the pong.
The time when I failed at my spellings;
the time my additions were wrong.
The time I was late down to breakfast;
when I left my bike out in the frost.
The time when I hid the crisp letters from school
that warned I was weaker than most.
Oh yes, they saw it all, these angels of mine,
that stood at the foot of my bed.
Did they count the sins of my grandmother?
They disappeared once she was dead.
From: https://www.persimmontree.org/articles/Issue15/articles/InternationalPoetry.php
Date: 2010
By: Jo Carroll (19??- )
From Troubles of The World 