LUNCH AT THE CHELSEA ARTS CLUB
I almost missed it by most of a month, diary dates
Knotting in a confusion of emails as I focused on painting,
Coaxing the slow growth of a tree or a rock, a stone or a branch,
From the bleak aspect of each otherwise empty canvas.
I arrived early in the bar with its heart of a snooker table
That has propped up the floor since I first saw it sometime in 1984,
Blinking in the daylight of a long drive I found Chris Beetles
Illuminated in the garden, gazing up at the sky
In the wash of the sun, pale suit and prepared for summer;
For thirty-seven years he has watched my brushstrokes multiply.
Harriet Bridgeman had taken hours from her several million images
To feed us. Time slid beneath the dining room table
Like a stray dog waiting for titbits and attention
As we poured ourselves into the space of a lunchtime
With a bottle of Crozes Hermitage wine.
The mushroom souffles were Roger Dean islands,
…