A Cornish Saint

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
...