I have to tell you

I have to tell you
Of the breeze on my legs
Of the ruffle of airstreams through my hair
It isn’t a Zephyr, from over the sea

Nor a Mistral, which could have travelled
Across mountain-streams
But it is the air that is with me
With me right now

I read a poem by Forough Farrokhzad
She was asking an invited guest
To bring a window
Also she may have asked

For the Brickfielder
At the end of the garden
Or the Etesian, which jostles with the bushes
As if to say: I am here, let me through

The gardens are in shadow
Also the fence
In front of my neighbours' blossom
Is partly darkened, yet more so it is in full sun

I have to tell you
Of the breeze on my legs
Of the ruffle of airstreams through my hair
It isn’t a Zephyr, from over the sea

Nor a Mistral, which could have travelled
Across mountain-streams
But it is the air that is with me
With me right now

I read a poem by Forough Farrokhzad
She was asking an invited guest
To bring a window
Also she may have asked

For the Brickfielder
At the end of the garden
Or the Etesian, which jostles with the bushes
As if to say: I am here, let me through

The gardens are in shadow
Also the fence
In front of my neighbours' blossom
Is partly darkened, yet more so it is in full sun

I am reading Memories of the Future
At the same time I think on
Of my future, of my past
How many dwellings

How many shelters
How much protection
From the elements
Or from the wandering subconscious

Am I the lucky one
Or is it the water
As it flows over the rocks, tumbles
And splashes into the pond

Not that this is my first shelter with a pond
There have been others
But way less successful
Let’s hope this one changes the mould

No more twisted ankles
No more failed relationships
No more dissatisfaction
With whatever are the outcomes

Available from Amazon

See more of Christopher's work Here

Preparations are underway

Preparations are underway
For a sort of official unveiling
The lamb was marinated overnight
And put in the oven by nine-thirty
The table, which once held my tools
Is cleaned and polished
Ready for the place settings
Prepared for its first use in a dining capacity
The pump was the first purchase
How is it possible to have a pond
Without water flowing
Yes, I do know that it is a simulation
This is not my childhood stream being damned
Or the rill, built in my second place of shelter
Yet for all of that
In some sympathetic, empathetic gesture
The margins are also sloping
A technique learnt
In a quite different place of shelter
Which, if only I had known it at the time
Was a transitory experience
A peak if you like
Only found once in a lifetime

Available from Amazon

See more of Christopher's work Here

This shelter, this shelter is evolving

This shelter, this shelter is evolving
Pebbles and cobbles are being washed
Then laid to rest
The refill of water is underway
For now it is for leaves and debris
But in the fullness of time
Well
Well, who knows
What the fullness of time brings

Available from Amazon

See more of Christopher's work Here

This is not yet a shelter

This is not yet a shelter

Even though

There are no doors or windows

The trap is still set

Waiting, as forever to be sprung

To dissipate this ground’s energy

To another place

And so it is the stillness which begs me

Which asks me

To find a peaceful aesthetic

That can only come about

Through the forces of manual labour

To move from the thoughts to the action

Then onto the eventual equilibrium

Only then will it be a shelter

With one eye closed to the light

With one ear turned away from the birdsong

The bird is on the branch

The sky is blue above

The apple tree begins to blossom

Why then not be more becoming

See that the lump hammer

And the miniature groins

All have a part to play

Yes, one must be fearful

Of the resurrection

Especially at this Easter Time

Although this shelter is not that shelter

Nor could it ever be

So press on with the construction

Enjoying the sublimity of the mind

Available from Amazon

See more of Christopher's work Here

This is my unfinished shelter

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

Available from Amazon

See more of Christopher's work Here