Friday Market
On Fridays we would walk beneathvaulted and high domed ceilings,
the smell of fish and cigarettes
mingling with the salty tang of tar
that stained more than the
whitest of stark enamel tiles.
Outside in the fresh air the raucous
screeches from gulls assaulted ears
as circling crazily they watched
old pallets precariously unloaded.
I never liked the smell of guts
splayed out on wooden boards
and sharp cleavers that removed
the heads with bulging eyes as
men in white coats trailed gore
as cheerfully they joked and
teased wide eyed little girls.
It was always cool inside as stall
after stall sold its ice encased wares.
Buckets of moules, oysters and shrimp,
coral speckled plaice and whelks
which oozed soapy liquid and slid
in futile, frustrating non escape.
Gentile ladies forgetting manners
haggled with hairy bare armed
fisher folk who smiled laconically
behind yellow acrid smoke, their
stumps of teeth eroded like the shores.
Fishing tackle, bait and offboard motors
were curious contraptions to behold
as sticky fingers longed to touch
the many coloured flies from rods.
Once outside our marketing done,
strong sun would beat our limbs as
the covered wicker basket rocked
gently between us as we strode,
sea shanties on our lips and tongue;
Set sail, we are homeward bound.
Poetry by Elle
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Written on 2014-03-02 at 12:33
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