John Wilkinson on holiday

Tourism

They improve with age.
The weathered images
are living saints
moved to a museum
from these niches; and
under this reformation
the pigeon stools instead.
A cine camera whirs
with ascending beats.

Don't be fooled. They
retain the spirit, and
coaches' disgorge
still gapes at the
empty vault of heaven.
Their vacancy
a kind of proof, and this
the buttress countenances.

Only children, these
at least, grip with
concentration. The white
regiment is unswaddled,
squalls in mufti clothes
under a chestnut tree,
stamps on prickly
armour. For it is soft

they know, and the silky
nut is released for play.

From Get Set in Oort's Cloud: Early Poems (Barque)