The Angel of the North shall stand
one hundred years on the high land
between Gateshead and Durham where
its wings, stretched open to the air
like an aeroplane, no feathers bright,
its rust reflects a duller, lesser light.
Above the motorway it towers.
Gormlessly this giant glowers
down as the cars and lorries pass.
It’s art, they say. It’s art my ass!
Advertisements
Pingback: February • Real Angels Never Rust | Parallel Oonahverse