When the Saints Came
We waited for them to heal us.
Took them gifts of honey, a rabbit-skin bag.
Showed them how to till and plant crops
with foresight. How to sweeten
bitter leaves by boiling.
We helped them quarry rock, carve
the blocks, stack them
fit to stand. Watched them wave
a blessing over the altar. Heard their prayers
wending up to God.
We took turns to dig the graveyard.
Hard earth or soft mud, no difference
to them. Unhealed, in time
we all took our places. Watched over
by the names of long-gone men.
Penny Blackburn lives in North East England and has appeared in a wide variety of publications, including online in Atrium, Riggwelter and Phare and in print with Dream Catcher, Lighthouse and Spelt. She is on Twitter and Facebook as @penbee8.