Claridges Poem by Jonathan ROBIN

The same discrete blue paper and the old quill pen still play
upon the mind to summon summer's memories as day
melts darkling sky from dusty pink to inky undertones, -
extrapolating time's ebb tide, when flesh fades from the bones.

How short will be the stay this time, so few have means to pay
a monthly wage within the compass of a weekend, - drones
disguised as business men of size who bore in monotones,
beneath ambitions buried deep to mask their hearts' dismay.

The tasteful paper blue recalls those images of scones
and endless teas on sunny lawns - now concrete covers - hay
last harvested so long ago that only archived loans
remember that prosperity's elastic silicone
pressed out upon b[l]uff surface, soon may wear, and tear or fray.

The phantom of King Credit past, now overdrawn and grey,
still stays in suite identical - though fax and telephone
add a touch of innovation to that décor so well known.
Yet despite the surface changes both cuisine and service stay
tailored to the highest standards, all the rules of taste obey.





© Jonathan Robin - poem written 1 October 1992