Friday Market On Fridays we would walk beneath vaulted and high domed ceilings, the smell of fish and cigarettes mingling with the salty tang of tar that stained more than the whitest of stark enamel tiles. Outside in the fresh air the raucous screeches from gulls assaulted ears as circling crazily they watched old pallets precariously unloaded. I never liked the smell of guts splayed out on wooden boards and sharp cleavers that removed the heads with bulging eyes as men in white coats trailed gore as cheerfully they joked and teased wide eyed little girls. It was always cool inside as stall after stall sold its ice encased wares. Buckets of moules, oysters and shrimp, coral speckled plaice and whelks which oozed soapy liquid and slid in futile, frustrating non escape. Gentile ladies forgetting manners haggled with hairy bare armed fisher folk who smiled laconically behind yellow acrid smoke, their stumps of teeth eroded like the shores. Fishing tackle, bait and offboard motors were curious contraptions to behold as sticky fingers longed to touch the many coloured flies from rods. Once outside our marketing done, strong sun would beat our limbs as the covered wicker basket rocked gently between us as we strode, sea shanties on our lips and tongue; Set sail, we are homeward bound.

Summer Rain The rain pours, she likes the cacophony of sound on pots, the springing ping as they wash leaving her balcony shiny and adrift and a cat who mews at the window rubbing condensation, but she won't care about washing windows and when the sun does smile she'll ruefully wipe a glass, settle herself on the plump cushions and feed a feline wish. But for now, a frown at the rug she left for beating, its sodden heat casting spirals in the air like bellows in front of a fire, while below he blows a ring, listens to the ching and thinks of pantaloons and bulls as he watches, weaves wave, dripping on chipping and the girl who in his eyes never changed

A million tears When you cry a million tears It is never enough It's so tough To be weak and strong And losing yourself In a moment, Our moment That we missed, The underbelly of hope I say gloop In a #poem that is heartfelt We fill buckets and pails And tears fall Without fail

Unravelling You would fall asleep one hand curled into the twist of my braid, the sweep of lash revealing bluish veined lids as angels breath sighed, vents from heaven. Those eyes that would stare still holding the mystery of aquatic sails at night and lips, pouting, pursed in remembered storms, winds not yet quieted. When you fell, the time it took to quell a dark and squally cloud whose cries ricochet as I bathed my lips in your first blood You took your thumb as in sleep it slid the trajectory of time and wonder, knots as tightly woven as my braid that in future would slowly be unravelled.

Monsieur Axonge A small light shines from Monsieur Axonge apartment. In a few hours he will have to rise and open the Charcuterie but for now he is content to lie in bed listening to the music that emanates from Madame’s balcony. Monsieur Axonge recalls yesterday when love held a flower in her hair and he did not sport a black mustache, just watched a vision from his uncles shop lightly dancing her way out of his #life but deep into his heart