Almost stepped on it, on them, bits of digit,
a pinky, knuckle, in the grass and gravel, graveside,
no blood, just dust, grit, some wire in it, in them,
the fingers, bits fallen off, but it's the savior
not a leper, or perhaps St. Pat, some pope—don't know,
just that he's mythic, biblical, robed, and old
as these things go, though these tombs are newer than
the ruins all around—the stone he's propped on
a grave of the lately gone—he's chipped, maybe chapped,
grey saint, white-washed, waving his hand
like that, disfigured benediction for those damn kids
crawling the walls and up inside the old tower,
cider and crisps in the friary, butts, some fumbling
about the motte and bailey just beside, relics
left behind, like these knocked off parts
on the lawn, almost stepped on, those two
bent digits in the litter that say he was divine
and not, flesh like us, to be picked up, pocketed.