At the markets

A river of brushing humans in easeful crush

Eddying against and flowing by

Obstacles of smiling greetings,

Washing up on the banks of stalls,

Meandering away in billabong queues


A green sward drops off

Under the vast shade of the big figs

To a road of milling walkers

And flashing, yacking cyclists,

While the old, old river observes sulkily

And turns a brown back on the bright scene.


On the sunny grass slack rope,

Hand-standing torsos, frisbies,

Pooches and toddling children.

Bared legs, backs, bellies,

Bodies in circles eat and talk

Spreadeagled on the grass.


From the windless air a lyrical guitar

cries “Mary …”

The beaming sun shines ‘No, no, no’,

No broken pieces of yesterday’s life.

My mind’s eye zooms up, up, up,

Sees a round earth under blue skies

And conviviality everywhere.