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.