From the steps at city hall,
the market square resembles
a tin of sweet wrappers,
brightly striped in sunshine
and glistening in rain.
A walk between the stalls
makes me sea-sick:
I roll down the lurching
incline, a sometime sailor,
bantering with Norwich traders
over fresh fruit, fish and flowers;
exotic spices, eggs and cheese;
candles and wicker baskets;
belts, boots, buckles and shoes.
I follow in the footsteps
of medieval men and women.
“Aryorite?” a familiar greeting
that hasn’t changed in centuries,
brought up-to-date with pop music
blaring from a stall selling CDs.
Kim M. Russell, 11th June 2019
Sarah is our host this Tuesday and she wants to go to the market with us. She asks if there’s anything more evocative of a place than its market. She says that there’s something wonderful about buying a pasty from the woman who baked it; or a punnet of berries from the farmers that grew them; or a taste of cheese by the man who created it, or a smear of chutney from the cook.
Like Sarah, we have a small market in our local town. We also have the famous covered market in Norwich, which I love to visit whenever I go ‘up city’, as they say around here.
Sarah would like us to write poems that convey the feel of the market somehow – the goods on offer, the people selling and buying, the smells, the tastes, the sounds. She tells us to let our poetry run free!