The Imperial Hotel 

Dear Chiara

I understand that it is your birthday
Soon
Your father is by the sea
In the Imperial Hotel
And has made these waves
Upon which he has asked for a boat
Which I can make
And will

I understand that you
And your mother
Are in the United States of America
Which is far
Much farther than the Imperial Hotel
But boats can travel far
And will

I understand that you have grown
And are making your way
Another life flowering
As I hear in your song
Which is balm to one
Who has travelled far
And from the Imperial Hotel descries
A little boat on the waves
Lost in the sun

I cannot say how much I wish for you

Little Pete

(Kung Chi Shing - Music, Peter Suart - Words)

Imperial Hotel

The forest spills down Glenealy and Wyndham
Through Pedder and on to the ferry
Through, over, and under
And up to the water's edge, overhanging
Vines in place of hawsers tether the foundered ships
And rays and snappers pass through the saloons

The tallest trees overtopping the Landmark
Their branches smashed through the windows
And holding hands with others on Queen's
Orangutans, golden lion tamarins, sloths
Loosed from the Botanical Gardens
Now swinging high up in the canyons
And multiplying as riotously as the green world
As wild boar from the Territories
Cross the harbour on the stepping-stone tanks
And camp under the escalator rising in the hollow bank
And in the brush of the gently cascading floor
A lone mouse deer
At gaze

A rush of flamingoes through Statue Square
Ascends over the ghosts of red-and-white caps
And turns towards the Gap and deeper water
And scarlet ibises on the balconies of the hotel
Pick at pillows and petits fours like stones
The black-eared kites have not moved
From their giant circles over the harbour
Their prey multiplied a trillion-fold
Their ground once more ancient

The noise is a tapestried music
Of cries, whistles, honks and trills
Woven in the dancing tunnels and corridors
Of the leaves and tendrils, trunks and golden boughs
Of an on-land sea thrashing in the nameless typhoon
Howling over the shapely crests and flanks of Victoria
Now indistinguishable from the drowned honeycomb
The green gown first covering, then breaking
Pulling the vain towers back to earth
And then covering once more

And should any ever come again
Troy, says one, Angkor, another
London, a third
Real, unreal, real

[Peter Suart]