Market
Warmth swelled up; a thick fog of colour and conversation binding like thread, winding through market isles until the air was bright. It was fine stitch work.
It wound and wound- un-suffocating but barely breathing. It cascaded; settled loosely on the roof of odd market stalls, binding the smell of fresh fruit and fish into every crevice of wooden stand.
suddenly standing, barefoot, cold
garden grass, wet dewdrops falling onto roots and stems
endlessly fresh, every growing green,
the smell of peas and runner
beans, a green so rich it’s golden
The light breaks through. Green dissipates slowly, bleeding into deep oceans of fabrics and rotting meat. So full of colour soaring into embroidery that for a split second the market was a church. A prayer service of pews and hymns and stained glass windows.
The silence is broken only by a blue bottle, which buzzed in mellow scales, rising and falling about the isles, tracing the string; looking. No bulb could muster the strength of the wooden stands which bore endless sight, no fly the eyes for a meal.
"The gift of God," they called it.
The old farmers who stood, pointing and grinning toothlessly at their prize-winning marrows ten decades ago. Dependent on spring tides and soil; their small country homes became commonplace in the market row.
A death row of life itself.
Animals strung by legs and ears- hung, drawn, or quartered- no one batted an eyelid. Their noses upturned, tracing the thread instead. The market was where life was born, concluded and cut short.
Desperate and searching, the flies let the pig ears be.
The string resurfaces; panting, breathing, rising and falling, falling into a succinct rhythm with the susurration of conversation. It tightened with thimbles full of cooking smoke and glistening pears.
A summer barbecue, allotments, small children
and red peppers, growth everywhere, eyes
ears, tongues, rich, fresh bread
full of air.
The string threaded itself around the opening of the market three times, straight through the heart and out the other side. Sunk and slept down arm and neck until it was sure the thread was thick enough.
It ties the knot into three neat eights.
Darkness loomed.
The searching stopped.
The thread fell.
