(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.
