Panis angelicus
fit panis hominum
Aquinas
Because they’ve had nothing to say
since the quattrocento,
the angels have turned
to card tricks
and sleight of hand,
music, but no alleluias, that gleam in the orchard
paling to reveal a godless calm.
They like it better now, a simple life
of wind and fire,
footprints in the dew
like hieroglyphs, but nothing to reveal
beyond the quiet of another
morning: first light, birdsong through the trees.
John Burnside’s posthumous poetry collection “The Empire of Forgetting” (Jonathan Cape) is out now
New year, new read. Save 40% off an annual subscription this January.
[See also: Through the unknown gate]
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This article appears in the 10 Sep 2025 issue of the New Statesman, The Fight Back
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