Tourists at Dusk

Good Friday, Canterbury Cathedral

As the light leaves us, we’re reluctant to go. All

around the precincts, a murmur of foreign words,

strange accents, clothes darker or brighter than ours,

knapsacks and looks of wonder. They photograph

themselves, taking turns, in front of the Easter Garden,

joint effort by local horticulturists and the Cathedral

Works Dept, with its small cave, stone yet to be rolled

away, transplanted lilies and potted conifers. Their children

sense reverence, smile seriously, know this is important. 

A single Japanese man takes his own picture, checks his face

is in frame, tries again. Why has he come? Does he know

any better than I do what draws us to this tolling bell,

   the company of strangers, why we can’t quite leave this looming

   church, with its hanging, single, silver coin of moon?