The Heritage Man

The volunteer stands in the grassy courtyard

of the ruined castle,

a heritage knight armed already at 9:15

with enough leaflets to vanquish the ignorance

of all enemies.

Undoubtedly keen for all challengers,

a good hearted greeter,

on a well informed mission 

to answer all questions,

no matter how tried,

his arsenal bristling with relevant facts

and little known drama to leaven 

the dullness of mere dates.

He stands, an unmatched champion

in dark green gillet instead of armour,

eagerly accosting all who enter,

though not having the veto,

like medieval porters,

or barring all who displease him.

I am one of these, avoiding his eye,

climbing the scarred battlements

to escape his keeness,

but even there every photo taken

seems to include him.

Out of duty, he catches me as I leave,

but I notice weary wariness in his face

(three awkward pauses in five minutes

though I try to spur him on with talk

of nearby Roman remains),

so I leave him alone in the rain,

keen to meet better visitors than me,

the heritage man near the gate.