Market Walking

Status: Finished

Market Walking

Status: Finished

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Market Walking

Poem by: PaulChafer

Details

Genre: Poetry

Houses:

Summary

This poem was conceived while walking around the market in our town. I had noticed the girl before; then when I saw her again - I watched, immobile in a crowd of shoppers and the words tumbled through my mind. I scribbled down what I could on reaching home, there was more, but now lost like wisps of imagery from a waking dream. Perhaps there is enough though, just enough.

Summary

This poem was conceived while walking around the market in our town. I had noticed the girl before; then when I saw her again - I watched, immobile in a crowd of shoppers and the words tumbled through my mind. I scribbled down what I could on reaching home, there was more, but now lost like wisps of imagery from a waking dream. Perhaps there is enough though, just enough.

Content

Submitted: December 14, 2009

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Content

Submitted: December 14, 2009

A A A

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Sauntering casually,

jostled by shoppers,

teatime bargain hunters;

curses of common folk

ringing in my ears,

out of tune with

the cries of the traders.

Two for one here!

I say, two for one here!

 

Embattled in the

throng of a slow

moving crowd, shoulders

heaving, swaying to an

inaudible beat.  Tired

faces marking time,

quelling inner frustration.

Get a move on!

Please, just get a move on. 

 

Now it’s raining,

incessant needles

prickle my face.

Suspended water droplets

dangle from striped

awnings, reflecting

trapped, busy, images.

Caught in a moment.

Spattered, in a moment.

 

Then I see her,

the fruit-stall girl,

her words and gestures

touch me like music

rippling over my skin.

Secret caressing fingers,

bringing me to life.

She doesn’t see me.

No: she doesn’t ever see me.

 

I’m almost mesmerised,

by the light catching

the white curve of

her neck.  Her hair,

like spun gold, dancing

on her ruffled collar as

she serves with a smile.

Your change sir.

Don’t forget your change sir!

 

I turned for home,

head bowed, shoulders

stooped; no crowded bus

for me with standing

room only.  A slow

solitary walk, past

dark, dripping gardens.

Her face for company, how

strange: her face, for company.


© Copyright 2016 PaulChafer. All rights reserved.

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