Anton’s box of treasures held
a silver key and a glassy stone,
a figurine made of polished bone
and a feather from an angel.

The figurine was from Borneo,
the stone from France or Italy,
the silver key was a mystery
but the feather came from an angel.

We might have believed him if he’d said
the feather fell from a bleached white crow
but he always replied, “It’s an angel’s, I know,
a feather from an angel.”

We might have believed him if he’d said,
“An albatross let the feather fall,”
But he had no doubt, no doubt at all,
his feather came from an angel.

“I thought I’d dreamt him one night,” he’d say,
“But in the morning I knew he’d been there;
he left a feather on my bedside chair,
a feather from an angel.”

And it seems that all my life I’ve looked
for that sort of belief that nothing could shift,
something simple yet precious as Anton’s gift,
a feather from an angel.