Poem by Pamela Twining

Market 5/6/13 __________________________________ on Mower’s field the grass has greened and trees leaved out embrace the Light and soften the wind’s breath rustling in anticipation _______________________________ the world has turned again to Spring and all the seekers of the sun glide out in bright swirling crowds winding joyously between the tents conversations spilling and colliding released from winter’s silent anomie _____________________________________ it’s Market Day but Jam Bill won’t be here this year with jalapeno-lime and spicy peach concoctions his clock run down in early fall wares scattered ashes scattered prayers lifted dirges sung the Dance moves on the way it always does laughter and cries of children halting steps of old men mothers shepherding their flocks all surging among the stalls burgeoning with a season’s hoarding made and found objects pieces of the darkness worked and polished set to music made for the delightful explosion from doors and windows out into the world again _______________________________________ it’s Market Day in Mower’s field and madwomen artisans and poets are offering the carefully crafted dreams of long unbroken nights that seemed to mock creation crystallizing any hint of colour capturing the rainbow in frozen shards to pierce the heart and eye with nightmare and aspiration _______________________________ all barrenness forgotten now in the swirling writhing Dance coming together moving apart ecstatic kaleidoscope sparkling with ancient jewels and glowing metals glass glinting rainbow sparks in sunlight stabbing to the heart in wild abandon multicoloured breezes skirl like bagpipes minor key highland melodies haunt the market field like the breath of all those lost to us this cold time recent past some spaces left at least till most of us who knew them are also spaces in the consciousness of a future now unborn ________________________________________________ may there always be a Market Day a community joined in creation and commerce sharing all the little things unique to our small lives with each other may there always be a market field bare in winter to collect the ghosts and bury them in our storied earth to green the trees en-leaved and rustling with anticipation __________________________________________ © 2013 pamela twining