It is the second time
That I sit in this location
Today I take a photograph
To remind me, of the cup of tea
The biscuit and the writing tools
And the view
Out over the pools
Out over the sea
Out to the faraway horizon
It isn’t quite a shelter
But it could be
With a table to all four corners
The chairs I suppose
Could be called Colonial
Certainly the round table
With three spread-out feet
Is from that period
If I am not mistaken
Yew and Mahogany
Are not so popular now
Even when inlaid with ebony
Nevertheless, for a temporary writer’s shelter
They more than outperform
Much of what we call
Modernism
Which, will itself mean little
In one hundred years or more
Outside, on the open-air platform
The chairs and sofas
Are of rattan
With cotton covered cushions
We sat on them
In the moonlight
When the shelter
Became a place
To sip Grand Marnier, or Dubonnet
