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| All Images: Former Cattle Market Site, Nottingham, April 2017 |
Reclaim one
frustrated hour in the ghost market…
(Gritted wind angling
across repurposed cement meadows, where furtive Wagtails make neurotic darts. An archaeology of slaughter - stockaded in
the Magpies’ overlook, and a monument to the spectral herd. The Union flags over the Government’s
surplus. England fades on a grimy
pane. A neglected display of the
unwanted.
Hunker over subsiding
cartons. Itemise a catalogue of Auctioneer’s
residuum. A fellow despondent scavenger
assessing storage solutions alongside. Record
a valise in brown vinyl – lost en route to an archipelago of discarded plastics. Silvered splinters; Hidden Treasures; broken
Love. Tables are occasionally overturned. Vacancy framed in the empty hearth.
The orphaned carriage
shifts almost imperceptibly, on fully-functional wheels. Derelict Minors, corroding nostalgic ‘round
the back. Primery and good in parts. A static convoy of white Transit – Luton-boxed
and chilled. Alpha-Beta removes to the head of the directory. The coffee
chair awaits. A bold sales pitch and cold
storage. Threefold refrigeration,
overall.
Gaze through an
aperture in concrete fascia. Beyond: locked
van doors - assailed with cold chisel and lump hammer; the enthusiasm of
herpetologists, peering conspiratorially into trestled tubs.)
…Exit through a carnal gate - emerging into the world between the Incinerator and the Iremonger.
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