Technicolor legs, plastic bags, the bustle of life,
some striped blue, some striped white.
Apple scent hung in the air, angry wasps,
greedily, hovering ready to fight.
Men shouted “Bananas,
come and get your bananas”
in that cocky London accent that felt like honey
being sung across a crowded room.
On sunny days voices echoed above laughter
And when rain fell, the clip clapping of shoes
Surpassed the clip clapping of tongues.
Burgers sizzled, onions frying
cheap vinegar sold as ketchup in
Manky souviettes. Culture? Perhaps.
In among the faces I see hints of my
of second home.
I learned here of a world beyond my own.
But never beyond my Dad,
lost in market scents
Wandering the rainbow hue of humanity,
reaching stars, grabbing at his hand…
Only it never was his hand….How one girl
Could get lost so any times among row
upon row of plastic covered stalls
Is beyond me…The beating of my heart
as the hand was not his,
not his large fingers holding me,
not his warmth not his touch…Somehow in those crowds
Among the legs too busy too stop,
The bustle of voice the bantered rhyme,
Angels, is all i ever found.
Karen Hayward ©2017