Tourists have the Midas touch
what they turn to gold they turn to dust.
Cries of wonder fade frescoes,
fingertips wear stone.
Sensibly clad feet beat paths
through forest groves.
The boats that bring them
bring employment
but anchors hack off coral,
bone white on the shore.
Hotels rise and rivers die.
And behind the air-conditioned bungalows
piles of plastic bottles grow.