Lourdes

We are voyeur-tourists, greedy for miracles:
sniffing round the edge of pain; smirking
as nun in boiled-sweet mac raises her mobile

to photograph the statue of the Virgin; pointing
at coach-loads filling gallon cans with holy water,
a thousand candles guttering for profit.

Until in mass-raised voices I smell prayer,
the tang of it sharp on the tongue, sweat of it
naked in the air, and shocked by recognition

(it tastes of love, and so of course it fells
you to your knees) I see, weaving amongst
the crowd, hope threads on rainbow feet.