Where Angels Tread

I watch people a lot - they show me things unseen.

Sometimes, I relax in the relative cool of the air-conditioned study and close my eyes. And I think of the land in which I was born, her pageantry and deft dominion, her troubled and mighty history, her triumphs and occasional failures, her songs and the deprivation and privation of her soul. Sometimes I think I see ripples in the stream, as if from afar she exerts influence disproportionate to her size, and resonates in the people around me. And then I look again, and she has gone, although I have seen her light in some other person. Some day, I shall write poetry which may yet catch that supernatural fire; that day is not yet come, but I already know what the first line will say:

"Like England, she is..."

The question is: What would the remaining lines say?

I suppose that for each person I meet, there will be a reflection of some state of being, some state of mind, a perfect or imperfect state, with or without natural or notional (combining to give national?) boundaries. Some day perhaps I shall meet a person whose light and momentary reflection reminds me of... Andorra, perhaps.