A Poem: Ochre coloured streets

By Evie Snow

Ochre coloured streets,
Streets not even streets
But paths winding their way
Through the potholes and stones,
A maze of dust and dirt and desperation.

Buzz of voices, whizz
Of passing moto.
Smell so distinctive,
Nauseating but familiar now:
Fish piled high under the glare of the crowds,
Staring, sweating, smelling,
Find themselves between goats and fabrics.
At home yet out of place.

Comfortable in the crowd,
Pressed tight against stranger bodies,
Wending through, step by step.
Time enough to absorb all,
Too much there to be absorbed.

Dust and dirt and sweat
Trickle down between shoulder blades,
Under clothes,
Tracing a memory soon
To be replaced by

More concrete in their smoke trails.


Got something to say?

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s