photo by Filipe Roque (c) unsplash images
Saturday shoppers all spoke hard cash, crinkling blue notes from frantic hand to hand, for translation into the languages of bread, luggage, mirrors, bedsheets, ackee, saltfish, oranges, CDs piled high crackling out of speakers hoping to sell themselves, catch ears by jangling chords like sonic change, Sweet Mother bursting out from under cover, sailing over stalls, before snagging on soft piles of towels, fading cadences lingering near friends eyeing sweet potatoes, lips pursed, assessing apples, plums, or chickens swinging from yellow metal stalls like gibbets, butcher’s eyes intent on plucking potential clients, not considering how market days once started between Victorian policemen’s teeth as whistles, turning market into match day scramble, the old shrill signal echoing in wrinkled faces, weighing fruit in punch-bowl palms, testing pears for ripe and heft, attending to subtle bruisings of banana, re-imagining that taste, first met years before, holding out unspoken hope, appealing for another chance, to feel the fruit give, as berry sugar softness yields to mouth and teeth and tongue, back home, or on the way.
My twitter handle is @richlyevocative and I also write a blog under the same title at richlyevocative.net
What a delicious ‘voluptuous’ poem was Ridley Road.Thank you! (Reminds me of Romford Market in the late 30s…(“snorting pigs, wild of eye..”.) An ancient poet. x
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