Chris Kinsey

CURRENTS

Market Day 23rd February 2010.

No more echoing screams, no greasy thrills,

all the bright vans, pistons and pulsing lights

of the funfair struck overnight.

Across town, the sheds and pens of the cattle market

were razed. Tesco built fast under arc lights.

Yesterday was Grand Opening.

Ont the bridge, a man, smart-for-town

stares down at the stony shallows,

leans uncomfortably far over ferry gliding ducks.

Others are leaning too, they list into air

thickening with cross-hatching snow.

The last gentleman's outfitters is going slowly:

Viyella reduced, hound's-tooth checked caps half price.

The Seconds Shop went months ago.

Currys is clearing out too.

Walking on through the shrinking street market,

a muscle in my back is a little too tight,

not painful, but tense enough to pull me out-of-true.

When I return, the man is still leaning over the bridge,

grainy behind snowflakes and blurred by cloud.

Someone lobs a three quarters ciggy from a van

and he snaps into focus, snatching it before it dampens.

"That's better." He smiles and goes,

leaving a gap for the wind's harmonics.

Cries get louder. A lone goose flies close to the hill's rim

unpicking the seam where weather fronts merge.

It beats for its flock and down falls.

by Chris Kinsey