A Market Place Just After Midnight Poem by Not Long Left

All the voices have faded home;
An eerie silence ehco's.
Rebounding to and from the
mossy bearded brick.
An occasional gush of wind
sweeps up anything light enough-
Plastic bags flapping in resistance
carried off to the unkown.
The acidic aroma of trampled
on tangerine's tease and tickle
these tired senses.
Black cats seeking solace in
the dark of the shadows
scan for the days scraps,
Thier yellow eyes, like fireflys
resisting the will of the night.
The footsteps of those now gone
still beat upon the cobbled floor.
The husky weathered voices of
the dawn greeting traders-
although less direct, still linger.
They will return with vigour
fuelled by coffee and the chilly
morning air. As the sun slowly
stretches in its wake and warms
itself against the fading glow of the moon.


Walthamstow/Romford Market 19.05.06 (first draft)