14 August 2016

That Sunday Market



The Sunday stall still comes around like a vapid 
dream, not that we’re up and at ‘em - we ceased 
the ritual’s pretence some way back; these days 
a leisurely lie-in almost lends credence though it 
breeds shadowy hints of guilt-feeling - as if such 
indolence will lead to imaginable catastrophes & 
we’d best keep on our feet to combat ‘em; trying 
to stay ahead of those inventions isn’t easy 

But the ingrained idea we are meant to be some 
where else, like at the Market selling fruit, isn’t a 
figment of imagination, & there’s no lessening of 
angst; th’ bloody market stall cross just won’t let 
go you vex to no-one in particular - keeps me on
on the move because I don’t genuinely relax 
© 14 February 2016, I. D. Carswell