My nostrils are bathed in the aroma
Of frying fat, of frying pig
There are voices on the radio
Snippets of conversation from
The year just gone
Peter, whilst cooking
Talks about
The Venice Biennale
Then shows me his photographs
Of the local ‘shoot’
Such atmospheric beauty
Ploughed fields, long grasses
Wellington boots, long-guns, magazines
And the innocence of children
For them it is the first time
For me it is the latest time
For you it is the only time
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