The Blind and Haloed

There must be unsensed ecstasy
in faith, a thrill I cannot see
but you have both seeing eyes
held out delicately as proof
of martyrdom unsung and undone

and sightless eyes restored
to you by good and piety
that make new sight
of old sense and feeling
touching the delicate string

of remembered history
suspended forever dangerously
over the rolling oceans
of forgotten truth and war
and all the unseen meek

lacking alms and voices
for whom your eyes are payment
taken and not taken
in violence, unjust
as it was then and is now.

But Saints are so much mist
a feather of vapour on the wind
Wild Thyme in the river's walk
they stand for the dead they saved
and for the opposite pole.

These days they have armed you
against the assault which made you
but the sword they have you
steal from your executioner
is like wishing away Judas

and now all that remains to worship
falls like a leaf to earth
or like water over cataracts
unfeeling of all physics
pulling it to earth

so all that is left is goodness

the perfect glow of ascent

through incense and woodsmoke

to sainthood and patronage

both blind and sighted.