Dear David

Dear David
My son and I
Have often visited
Salts Mill Gallery

First to see your
Various collections
As well as to taste
Their cafe’s finest offerings

In the early days
We would often see Jonathan Silver
Strolling around the books
And inspecting the tailoring

One time, on our way home
We got caught in the snow
We had to stay in a B&B near Haworth
Actually it was an old vicarage

With a long drive
And a large fire
We were made most welcome
It was a time for father and son bonding

Which I thank you for profusely
Kate and I went to London
To see your tree painting
It was quite an occasion

With the best Barolo wine
In the Italian restaurant
Where Piccadilly and Regent Street meet
Of course I know

We could have gone to
Leeds or Scarborough or Bridlington
To search out more of your shelters
For, thankfully, you have provided many

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This afternoon I am due

This afternoon I am due
At the hospital
For physiotherapy
To heal my sciatica

For several weeks
Sciatica has been my shelter
Not by choice you understand
Though for sure it was within me

This is my second appointment
With John
Who works for the NHS
He impressed me on my first visit

He asks if I know
When or how the pain started
I really didn’t know this time
But last time was after a massage

Which was a bit of a ha-ha
Moment for John
Apparently, if you are not well supported
During massage the nerves can be trapped

The first time I had sciatica
The doctor blamed it on DIY
As he did also
For my tennis elbow, and my frozen shoulder

I have cut back on the DIY
My partner doesn’t let me do hardly any
Which is a bit of a nuisance
For a man supposedly creating shelters

So I turn to sciatica
As both poem and shelter
Already wondering if the next one
Might be Ibuprofen or Paracetamol

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I am in the Internet Corner

I am in the Internet Corner
Of the Atrium Prestige Hotel
On the Greek Island of Rhodes
I am entirely alone
In this calm space
Now that the cleaner has departed

My shelters for today
Have shiny marble floors
Chairs and tables from antiquity
Also bookshelves from IKEA
With the square Bridge tables
Covered in green baize to complete the look
That is apart from
The two computer monitors

Also from antiquity
Or at least the steam age
The framed painting
Is a repeat from our bedroom
It hangs between
Two full-height glass panels

By the large screen television
Is a Perspex tube or column
A place to recycle batteries
There are no ash trays
What with the Greeks just passing a law
To crack down on smoking in public

On the back wall
Opposite the TV
Are four, tall
Rectangular windows
Also canvas art prints
One is of Linda’s Acropolis
One is of cloisters
From who knows where

Yet, even in a room
Filled with clutter
There is a peacefulness
As befits
My penultimate days
In search of a vacation shelter

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I have taken shelter in the plainsong

I have taken shelter in the plainsong
Happy with the cause and effect
Of suggestion followed by response
As if that isn’t just what I do
By allowing myself to become vulnerable
In a place where I have no provenance

I look at the sacred image
Of Jesus himself
Above the devil below
As if in my first visit to the opera
With Mephistopheles
Beneath the stage in central London

That neither of those items
Became any kind of shelter
Says a good deal
About the simplicity
And absolute naivety
Of my upbringing

Of course, by myself
I tried to change that
I went on many explorations
I moved shelters many times
Once or twice I thought I had found
The one space which truly mattered

Yet
Just as my casting off
The imagery and the hierarchy
Of organised religion
Sort of did it for me
The solution itself still wandered

It took me to the song
And the ritual
It took me to the incense
And the occasion
It took me beyond myself
To that way distant shelter

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It is the second time

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

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See more of Christopher's work Here