DOING THE CONTINENTAL

The surprisingly hot, September, afternoon sunshine

Glinted on the sunglasses

Of a man reflectively gazing

At his diminishing glass of lager

As a shaft of sunlight penetrated the amber depths.

Time to call it a day or –

A refill to celebrate – whatever?

Not all of the tables were occupied,

But those that were

Reflected the mood of the patrons.

The exotic, pink cocktail-filled glass

Stood beside the macho pint of draught lager,

Each pleasurably enjoyed

By the owners of the delightful, fluffy, dark brown dog

Who also was catered for

By the strategically placed dish of water!

At a rear table, two teenagers smile

As one produces his age verification card,

At the request of the waiter.

Minutes later, the half-pint of beer is lifted –

A toast for his first officially legal drink,

As he crosses into his new world!

We, abstemiously enjoying very hot, white, flat coffee

(Leopards don’t change their spots –

And sundown still to come)

Recall those far-off days of carefree entry

Into the unknown promises of adulthood.

As if in warning of Life’s transience,

A chilly wind sweeps up from the distant mighty river,

Reminding us of Summer’s demise

And the imminent passing

Of the delightful, continental, café culture.

An empty bus disappears up the tree-lined avenue.

No! Not Madrid, nor Paris, not even Rome.

Just a special café in this leafy suburb,

Our cherished home for nearly sixty years.

From our resident poet