Gloss

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 retreat 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

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Meal Out

It is a room of archways
Circular details, rectangular
Mirrors & windows

It is a space with chandeliers
In line with the sea, lights
Perpendicular to the horizon

It is a floor, whose boards
Run diagonal to the walls
With wood-pattern frames

It is a roof, also forestation
Hexagonal and triangular
Patterns, of polished veneer

It is one person
Sat at a table for two
Hesitating for the next word

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Gourmet & Light

I like the crispy duck
Because I like the crispy duck
I am here alone
Why else would I like the duck

I am looking forward to the chow-mien
Because I can try to use chopsticks
I am here alone
Why wouldn’t I try something new

I thought I might watch the day disappear
Because of being on the cusp
I am here alone
Why not enjoy the mysteries of dusk

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Workday

The five bar gate leans out and over
Pulling at the barbed wire fence; these
Are the big fields, of Norfolk & Suffolk

A lament plays on the car stereo
Good times appear to be on the water
Where was I five minutes ago

I didn’t then know
Of the garden centre cafe
And the rows and rows of weedkiller

This restaurant I have been to before
But not alone, not alone in the early evening
Before the jovial ‘out for a good time’ diners arrive

I wonder at the decor, it’s neat, professional
The whole place sparkles and appears well run
Unlike the downbeat town where I fear to walk

Yet what connects me to the orient; I have never
Been there, I never really desired to; yet I’m eating
A chow-mien duck special, and reading Murakami

Becoming immersed in his hyper realisations
Joining him in streets, on trains, in temples
Thats as close as I’ve been; yet I’m almost ahead

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Break in Service

A camper, or a canal boat, or a caravan
To go places in confined spaces
Finding out, just who on earth I am

An iPod, or a laptop, or a roaming internet plan
To write letters to my so-called betters
Pointing out, the beauty wherever I can

Usherettes & launderettes & Kingdoms of Bhutan
To refresh our vests, and impress the rest
I hoped you’d halfway understand

That there is a decorum, a standard for this man
Who missed the introduction to love, but
Who tries to make up, to head off a lifetime ban

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