I am the saint. This is my church.
I stand over the porch, I stand next to the altar,
Sometimes a place on the calvary.
You can see me on my stag, with my wolf,
Beside my dog, along with a horse or cow.
I prefer animals. They obey me.
I am honoured with altarpieces, telling my story,
Through offerings and prayers, a relic, a tomb.
Honoured by banners and processions:
On my holy day, the Pardon winds its way.
Not always so easy being a saint.
All those demands and quarrels and envy:
I would prefer the quiet peace of a lonely spot,
But destiny says otherwise.
I have a mission: it is quite an exalted position.
Special powers make me a magician,
Using my staff for a wand.
I could strike a spring from the earth
Drive dragons to suicide,
I could cure shingles, blindness and burns.
Make children walk or form in the womb,
Bring rain to crops,
Call up the wind or pat it down
To save ships in a storm.
At my best, I was most effective.
People spoke fervently to me once,
A saint who was here and did stuff of note,
Rather than God, too busy or remote.
Now not so much.
No longer the draw, the object of hope,
I live in the past, and to be honest I’m bored,
It’s an unsettling slope,
From adored to ignored.
2019 ©Wendy Mewes