Others have sought publicity
But the saints looked for higher things.
The people getting ready to fly
Off the roofs of public buildings
Had their eyes on the actual sky.
Never spreading their linen or bamboo wings

So briefly for a public death
Had they really been saints of the old school.
Those saints have the last laugh
At the reporters for the Chronicles
And the people taking photographs.
I think especially of Brendan setting sail

One day the sea was a blueblack
As his body the overnight he had beaten,
Drifting along wherever God liked
And the people living by bread alone
Shouting after Good Luck. Good Luck.
All the Chronicles agreed. The boat was stone.