Arc-a-Types

I am not Joan of Arc.
Oh I could have been her for a week or two.
I might have heard voices,
I might have worn armour,
But when I got tired or scared
I probably would have gone home.
And England would have won
and I might have died an old toothless French grandmother,
Herding sheep and spinning wool, forgotten.

Heroes persevere to the end.
They're left alone,
Scorned,
Shunned,
And only later are revered when it's safe and
We light candles at mass in their names.

Trailblazers have thankless jobs
And loneliness and pain.
I might have struggled behind Joan in battle,
Complaining, when will this siege be over?
I'm hungry!

Or while she was burning
I might have thrown cupfuls of water
Surreptitiously at the fire,
Hoping not to be noticed.

More Peter than Jesus,
More rabbit than lamb.