The League of Saints

The blister on my heel has healed.
Each day there's more between
This laundry and the lake and field,
What is and what has been,
Or, by the currents of our blood,
Me and a future queen.

Each day, each minute hauls the mud
From the concealing mist
And strips the glamour from the dud,
Gauze from the fractured wrist
But I have soared too high in rank
For us to co-exist.

I thank all those I ought to thank
But I am in the place
Of every miracle that sank
With or without a trace.
As if all smiles were mine by right,
...