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This poem is taken from PN Review 57, Volume 14 Number 1, September - October 1987.

A Cornish Saint Philip Gross

They can't be serious, those two-a-penny saints
  washed up like holy jetsam: no mere boats
for them, but millstones, coffins, kegs. So delicate
  Saint Ia had to float
in on a leaf. Their visitations stopped abruptly

as the trippers' now. St Ives is emptied like a till
  and counted. Stiff winds scrub the town.
Summer timetables tatter and flap; awnings rattle
...


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