An Angel in Blackpool

That light.

It reflects against the deep blue of the ocean. It strobes. Inviting me in. Inviting everybody in. I have never seen anything as beautiful. Swarms of people gazing at the spectacle before them.

As I peer down from the heavens to look upon Blackpool’s golden sands, the lights are trapped in my eye. Swirling around, making waves as though the Irish Sea swims around my pupils.

The pulsating gold emanates and consumes my body. Dripping in thick buckets as generations laugh, grains of warm sand caressing their toes.

That light embraces my mind, flowing along the shoulders, down my arms and trailing across fingertips. Coating my entire being as a vanilla ice cream melts gracefully along the palms of an infant.

And the laughter. Even up here, us angels can hear the roar. The new sounds, rocking around the clock, shaking and moving as tea dresses swirl and magic awes.

The Golden Mile pulses with opportunity.

I am hooked by the same dream that captures the working people. A want to bathe every sense deep in the light.

And with that I set off for Earth.

The days travel past me as I swim ever closer to the glow. Years float by in a blink. Decades wash over me until finally, I arrive.

I land on the beach and gaze skywards at the Tower. The lights have changed since I last saw them. Brighter. The lumens emit a sterile glare. A heart brands the centre of the crimson steel frame, pumping with electrical impulses that repeat and repeat. The town is beating, but the blood does not flow smoothly.

With each step I take upwards towards the street, the glowing film that had taken hold of me starts to tear away like the posters of performances past, lingering on walls. I stare at the shuttered street in front of me. Suffocated store fronts, signs that fade, overcome with flaked paint, each crack a reminder of a life touched but now long forgotten.

I walk among the shadows of a story, one that is caught in a past that does not recognise itself in the now. Amusements call out in muffled tones to a road that is limping along, desperate to move forward but trapped in the creeping darkness of the storm clouds that settle in the skies above.

Wetness licks my feet, the salty brine scratching at my flesh. Eroding. Like the town surrounding me. The place of my fascination now refusing to look me in the eye, keeping its head down, filled with shame. A light switch turned off as fears of paying the next bill and finding the next meal rumble around me.

Forcing my legs, I carry on along the front, taking a turn to my right onto the high street. Following the scent of oily fish, frying, spitting. Clouds of sweet vapour and herbal smoke choke my lungs. Polluting body and mind. A sweat starts to form across my bare flesh as I question the addiction that brought me to this place. A town where other addictions thrive and compulsions make the streets dim.

To my right I spy two people. Caught in a filthy embrace. They don’t see me. I am as invisible to them as the opportunities they seek.

Both faces sketched with deep pencil lines, leading from one side to the other, again and again. Patterns repeating themselves. A drawing of hardship and struggle, the lead etching an image that is forever lost and confused amongst itself.

I see their eyes meet with a rich tenderness. Paired with a home of concrete and cardboard, this unexpected warmth causes me to pause.

In my stillness, I see another flash. Chunks of bread soaring in the air, being torn with no hesitation from a worn, leather handbag. Its owner smiles. Beaming with delight as the seagulls flock around her. The simplicity of their flights, their needs, makes me smile too.

The screeches of the birds startle. A baby cries. Pushed by a young mother in ill-fitted dress with dark circles around her eyes. She stops to comfort her child. Reaching around, her hands brush the little one’s fair hair. The crying stops. Halted by the careful touch of a loved one.

Behind me, a man sits with an old guitar. The case as battered as the bench he is perched upon. He sings in one tone to an audience that does not hear. He is lost. Captivated by a tune that is held close to his heart. His fingers strumming with a hypnotic familiarity as his lips curl up at their corners.

One of the two who had first caught my attention starts to tap their right foot rhythmically to the song. I watch as they stand with a self-assured confidence. An outstretched hand is flung towards their companion and cold fingers clasp together. With a might that appears contrary to the slight frame, the companion is hauled up to their feet and they dance. No ballroom in site. Just two people trapped in circumstance.

They laugh. I laugh too. We roar.

I now see through the show, the spectacle, the noise. I had been blinded. Overcome with a fantasy that existed for a mere minute. My eyes are finally open.

The light of humanity does continue to shine through the struggle of time. It just requires a helpful hand and a careful eye to be seen.

Angel’s Bone is the Pulitzer Prize-winning opera-theatre work by composer Du Yun and librettist Royce Vavrek – performed by the English National Opera at Aviva Studios from 12 to 16 May 2026. Find out more here.