#22 Do the Little Things in Life

Some of my NaPoWriMo comrades and Facebook friends appear to be writing about their day’s saint today. With no offence intended, this is my take...

St. George says jack to me
A hackneyed archetype
All “look at me” with his
Smouldering Italian eyes
Fixed on a slightly dubious prize.

Maybe I’m bitter -
A feminist Welsh witch
Gritting old teeth at occupier fervour,
Nerve hit by symbolic pagan-killing.

He’s an interesting twist away from
The other fellas - remonstrators,
Snake-haters, hillock-makers, fishermen,
Kings and bones and gold-bound things,
All the big ones imports.

It seems I like my holy people local,
Vocal, quietly stubborn,
Humble, healing, proved
To have been breathing more than ink;
Psychopomps and gods and warriors
All have their place but not as saints.

I know it isn’t up to me, but
Yellow buds, a half-day holiday,
Dressing up and pungent vegetation,
Gwnewch y pethau bychain mewn bywyd,
Whispers more to me than violent adulation.