summer is the season of barbecues
the perfumes of burning meat
the prickling of eyes in the smoke
the chatting round the brazier
the uncovering of the salads
are back to frame our evenings
being of advancing age
and preferring to be seated
I tend to become invisible
some people greet me
saying you are looking well
thinking for your age
a bloke who’s nearly as old as me
talks about his imminent surgery
in unexpectedly cheerful terms
I remark on his insouciance
hadn’t his wife died under the knife
I trust these quacks he says
the wind freshens
I feel some drops of rain
if it gets any worse says Betty
we can move inside to the table
I agree but nonetheless am saddened
that our perfumed pleasure dome will be abandoned
Bill Hannan 