The Ascension of St Christina the Astonishing

by Andy Jackson

The Ascension of St Christina the Astonishing
          Patron saint of millers

Above you all I loved my three–fold God;
More than Father, face–down in the pasture, Son
lost among the grains, or the Ghost of the haar.

My unclean scent was in the snouts of dogs.
I was racked upon a water–wheel, ran through thorn
and thistle yet emerged as white as winter flour.

I was clothed in colours of the dusk.

Now at death I lie as heavy as a bulging sack —
a woman made from miracle and beeswing,
looking for forgiveness in the depths of pain.

The weight of many madnesses are on my back.
I could be the reason for your unbelieving.

I am the black ball of smut in the dunes of grain.

Now I am hulled like barley from my husk.