WELL - GROUNDED ANGELS
This poem is a tribute to the teachers and staff at the Aspen Unit, the school for mentally and physically handicapped children that my Grandaughter attended.
Angels they are, real angels,
not the sort in flowing robes
with sickly grins and glitzy halos.
Down to earth angels, flesh and blood,
every day angels in blue jeans.
No harps for them - or silver trumpets,
no wings or braided hair,
just kleenex and a kitchen roll
and resposibilities that they share.
No honey or ambrosia,
no goblets of sweet wine,
just sandwiches and coffee
and one eye on the time.
These are homely guardian angels,
not the floating fluffy kind
that pass serenely by on clouds
all holy and sublime.
Ordinary angels wearing shoes,
mopping the floors and cleaning the mess,
pulling up knickers - flushing the loos,
angels who know when to scold or caress.
Angels of 'Aspen'