Relics

The saint in her stasis reclined there,
Preparing to rise, her handlers made clear,
On what bailiffs call the Last Great Day
When they swear in the witnesses at court.

Wouldn’t it be fine to see it happen
In the rainy doldrums of a Thursday,
The skies finally parting, not for the sun,
But the thresher’s pale and exacting hand.

Strange what comes to mind around a girl
Whose final act was to die part way
And tour a strange country among such crowds
Of scoffers, believers and journalists;

Of seekers who enter the dusk of church,
And fancy the hint of an indrawn breath
Has disturbed the azure ribbons on her breast,
And so light a candle, and long for death.