Quite unsplendid now, a series of arches
without a roof to keep out the humours
of gout. My eldest asks about the holes,
that once held beams, but wanders off before
it seems I really get going on my schoolboy
historical French - Je suis histoire -
I mutter, pausing a little to study
the dais, where once an abbot ate swan.
We move on, like everyone, not seeing
quite why we would care to look at a thing
not there.
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