This is my unfinished shelter
A place distracted by a wheelbarrow
By a lump hammer, by a stonemason’s chisel
By a pair of well-worn workmen’s gloves
I see red tulips
I hear birds chirping
The sun is strong this Thursday
And tomorrow is Good Friday
There is a breeze
Wasn’t there always on Fuerteventura
There is an abundance of greenery
Not at all like those black deserts
I fixed those hooks on the wall
Several summers ago
They were for candles
In glass-sided lanterns
The red bricks have stayed with me
Reclamation from another shelter
That dividing wall in the old stables
Which just had to go
Demolition being more my approach
That is back in the day
Before restoration and reuse was in vogue
Knock it down, start again, that was my mantra
However, since becoming
An honorary member
Of the temperance society
And hanging my bag with the meditators
My shelters are becoming simpler
Or more wholesome
Although occasionally
There will be a rush of blood
An apparent desperate need
For a temple on a mountaintop
Or its symbolic equivalent
Here in the Wolds
