The market front

(written from the warmth and comfort of a coffee house upon a cold market day)

Cold market,

nine of the morn,

flowerpots lined up,

troop-like,

ready to go over the top;

vegetables boxed side by side,

ammunition to gain a profit,

primed and prebagged;

tent tops arrayed as generals’ hats,

colourful and ignored;

shoppers fast-pacing to other fronts,

cursory glancing with hands firmly pocketed,

idle eyes idling,

frozen children handpulled to appointments unknown,

coffee shop voyeurs watching the unbloodied battlefield;

handbags for sale swing in line,

like neck-wrung turkeys,

mute falling for a shoulder to cry on;

rugs ready-rolled awaiting a floor to sprawl upon,

bulk-bought books cover-flapping to gain attention,

fresh-baked bread and cakes inch by minute towards their expiry,

devil-eyed seagulls eye up that time arriving,;

hoodied heads wander on,

acknowledging not the sacrifices ready to be made.

 

 

 

 

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