Sunday Market

09:10 am and it is a Sunday morning, not hugely 

early you’d think, but we’ve been up since three; 

its market day, the scene’s boredom at our stall, 

no-one’s buying our wares in this heat - patrons 

apace are playing fools at hotdog and cold drink 

vendors; staying awake takes awesome effort in 

behaviour displacement - a non compos state of 

‘aware’ if you need reminding politely 

One wonders what drives this aberrancy; who’d 

waste a morning’s glory idly chattering to people 

who bash ears with similar drek - except that it’s 

a ritual years in the making, your reps at back of 

it; they’ve come to buy your fruit in homage and 

respect for what you as a grower stand for 

Didn’t useta warrant it you muse wryly between 

yawns, must be something ado with the insanely 

early starts, but hey, there’s always a warm face 

in greeting - and affable chat as money changes 

hands is appealing - appreciative people in the 

run of it always win you over, hands down 

© 3 November 2013, I. D. Carswell