There was a photograph
Of the Italian restaurant
At the cross roads of Regents Street and Piccadilly
There was a photograph
Of the red lighthouse
Where we listened to the historian & film maker
These are in a magazine
Issued free to hotel guests
Partly to celebrate the area, also so that travellers
May feel more at home in their retereat surroundings
We had eaten in the very same San Carlo Cicchetti
It was the occasion of my sixty-first birthday
We drank a glass of forty-nine pounds a bottle Barolo wine
Passed on a taste of our dish, to the Irish American travellers
We had met the historian and film maker by that red
Lighthouse, near the wobbly statues at South Shields
We were n our way to the Hebridean Isles via Sunderland
Edinburgh, Findhorn and Ullapool; he gave me a business card
Such that memories are remembered, in half-empty
Hotel rooms; such that triggers are triggered again
Wherever and whenever the sun goes down
This is a poem from Vagaries:
Love of The Key to Room 149
