Cloud walking

I can hear in the wind's onomatopoeia the year

I swore I would cross the tees. Angels walk above
cliffs of Falcon clints wearing clouds as slippers,
the crack of thunder the sound of them knocking
on the rivers door.
 
The river Tees is like an untied shoelace. I can
trace the residue from angels treading on grapes,
the waters here where the moon bathes it's spear
throwing it down challenging me to sing and make
a river cry then find a tear placing it on the spear.
 
Could I make the river straight placing the moon's
reflection at it's tip to, then walk straight line with angels
where I would watch them dip there wings. The river's
ghost is fragmented in the rain falling- it brings details
of a dual crossing, when I finally pass over the tees and
leave the earth where I will be reconstructed somewhere
with the lost parts of egglestone abbey. I crossed the footbridge
over London's beck before I lost my eyesight, I can hear the
echo of pipistrelle bats that live in the guam viaduct, they are
like the visions of the Tees that hang in the viaducts of my mind,
I used to drink at the bluebell inn at eaglescliffe, do bats drink
in the dark?.
 
I painted eyes on the wings of a kingfisher, it dives into the reflected
moon and the tear stained spear is collected by the moon, briefly we
have the same coloured eyes, did the river catch it's own reflection?
 
I make a covenant with the darkness, fingers of light wear the river's gloves,
they caress my eyelids hoping to return my sight then take my hand to bathe
under the waters of the high force waterfall.