Brixton Market

The traders traded funny looks
As the butcher butchered hanging his hooks.

The baker baked in the summer sun
As the barman barred folks from having fun.

The preacher preached to the already converted
As the musician mused with genres subverted.

The cyclist recycled her carrier bags
As the locals located hidden price tags.

The diners dined out on secondhand tales
As the grocer grossed out with grubby nails.

The florist floored folks with an array of colours
As the market marked its territory with a gorgeous odour.

© Carl Burkitt 2017

She came home

She came home three weeks ago, skipping down the hall like she does. “Eyes closed, hands out,” she said. “I’ve got a surprise for you!” The second I closed them, I heard a thud. I’m yet to open my eyes – I’d hate to ruin the surprise – but when I do, I think I’m going to give the flat a clean. It stinks.

© Carl Burkitt 2017