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.
