At the Tate, St Ives

Old lovers (well dressed) fossilise a kiss

in the discreet galleries,

among the abstracts and cathedral quiet.

Captured on the CCTV, nobody would be surprised

to see their lip clinch installed as a video work

in next season's display.

They stand, alarmingly together,

leaching colour from forms struggling

already to declare their meaning.

On their day out they have decided

to educate themselves and those watching,

unashamed and begging as many questions

as Barbara Hepworth's torsos.

Tourists respectfully detour around

their installation until they decide

to look at the art themselves,

well pleased and why not at their 

unplanned clinching,

and one or two almost applaud

at their understated audacity.