AT A LONDON POETRY FESTIVAL


Jacob's Ladder: six-winged seraphim

scramble up the receding beam,

as cherubim tumble, po-faced, spent;

while underneath: angel ordinaries, content

to browse the falling feathers, gossip

over light motes — some looking up, 

some never looking up,

until Tomas Tranströmer,

laureate, at the piano,

fingers the sarabande

written for his only good hand,

smiling mutely from his rolling chair

at the standing adoration tendered there.