No more birds to stalk no mice to scare. No way out of memory's labyrinth. Slowly life is running out like drops along a drainpipe. At the Market Old women all their lives, they're a mixture of whitelime and brine, rubble packed into rusted iron frames. Their eyes are hard, icy, like sleet, and their hair droops like trampled weeds.
Soured blood flows through their veins.
They shop early, poking around in the vendors' stands. digging almost. They pick out tomatoes that are bruised. Wilted vegetables that smell like dung. They always take a child along, with a mop of hair and snot running from his nose, who hangs on, trailing from their greasy skirts, sucking on apple or banana skins. They manoeuvre him with yells and shoves.