Better Things Come in Hues of Blue
Saints walk among us. Sometimes, you’re in the same room
Clothes are pressed & folded
placed neatly in three columns
on an old sideboard like
centurions in tight formation.
Drawers are full but she keeps
turning up with new shirts.
I just don’t have enough bodies
to wear them. ‘I just thought you’d
look good in this,’ she says.
A friend says I never had it so good.
‘It’s true. She’s a giver.’ How do I explain
in fact, she’s my first madonna
without causing offence?
The divine sent in the big guns.
In a case like mine
only the big guns will do.
Those shirts are more like vestments
sacred objects for my unfolding.
Outside, debris falls & a slow
smoke rises in the East.
Late forays of light cut through
waist-high maize. Shadows put
the sun to bed like any good father.
All returns to source — what was split
in my world is gathered & put away.
Don’t get me wrong. I understand
madonna-whore. She’s not perfect
but near as Heaven makes.
I like the pale blue of egg shells
& steady horizons — the colours
of Mary kneeling at the cross.
Saints can come in human form
How do I know? There’s a duck egg
tinge all over my room.
Copyright Simon Heathcote
