Tourists
The cathedral is full
of tourists,
gape-mouthed, overwhelmed
at the gilding and paint, the play of light and space
and color,
everywhere, color.
Cameras clicking.
Fingers pointing.
A murmur of wonder echoes from chamber to chamber,
a museum so vibrant
they miss the quiet God of light
all around them.
About this poem
How did we get to a place where churches and temples have become museum pieces, rather than sacred space?
We are the poorer for it, I believe.
Tom
