Text 7: Musings of a Patron Saint

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