The Tourist
What is it about pillars, and spires, and domes,
That makes us spend weeks away from our homes,
Travelling the world in a coach, boat, or plane,
To stare at some edifice in the pouring rain?
Why do these places hold such a draw,
Inspiring us to take photos that we’ll quickly ignore?
Why do their ornaments, locations, or heritage,
Prompt us to buy magnets to put on our fridge?
Were speeches delivered on their hallowed floors,
That seeded great change amid jeers or applause?
Were ground breaking theories or cures quietly sought?
Were uprisings or last stands bravely fought?
Must their styles correspond with a bygone epoch,
Like Romanesque, Rococo, Renaissant, Baroque?
Must their structures be fashioned from a singular material?
Must their grandeur reveal a past that was shamelessly imperial?
Do memorials well designed, amply sized, and well sculptured,
Make us feel intelligent, attractive, or cultured?
Do they need to be the brainchild of a celebrated architect,
to warrant our attention, to garner our respect?
Must clock towers be steeped with rumours or mysteries?
Dungeons embroiled with horrible histories?
Must corridors echo with some illustrious story,
About scandal or courage, defeat or glory?
Were famous rallies or trials conducted?
Are Oxbridge or Ivy League students instructed?
Are paintings or curios displayed on their walls?
Are symphonies or operas enjoyed from their stalls?
Do we learn from the tales of our pasts highs and lows?
Do we utilise the wisdom that our history bestows?
Are we better people for all that we’ve seen?
Or is it just nice to say that we’ve been?
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© Matt Cope 2024
