An angel broke a drover’s wheel,
A badly rounded troubled thing it was.
Shaped from wood and buckled steel.
It was stripped and broken so because,
Some rock had chipped its outer edge.
The spokes had split in the early dawn,
The cart it teetered on a ledge.
The hub was sound but badly worn.
The rim was twisted and the spindle bent.
The Angel arched over a bench.
The tools he used were heaven sent,
To do the job he used a special wrench.
The Angel began upon his task
To fix the wheel, before to bed.
He gazed upon his celestial mask,
And he realised where he feared to tread.
© Sean P. Ransom.