It was cold when they left Macedonia,
The saints barely warm in their robes,
Sleet on the mules. In Greece,
The villages shuttered and mean.
Dangerous ports, difficult seas —
Wasn’t much warmer.
Crepuscular streets, hushed welcomes,
Worried looks at the door.
From Macedonia, said the saints.
With money for the Christian poor —
In cramped houses, dinners of fish and figs.
Lamplight played on plaster walls.
Later at night, the lowing of the kine,
A different meal,
The bread of remembrance, the wine —
Dome impossibly high.
Rain blows like a spirit
Onto the flagstones.
The saints walk into gold
In the frescoes,
Urgent everlasting gold —
And I, who have no home —
When will I come from Macedonia?
When will I go to Jerusalem?
When will I go to Rome?