Walking around a supermarket the other day, I couldn’t help overhear a couple of women complaining vociferously about various items not being available on the shelves. This proved to be the spark for the following poem, I hope you like it.
The Weekly Shop
Keen bright eyes take careful aim
as the long thin pipe seeks hidden game.
Cheeks bulge, then, with a puff,
the speeding dart finds the scruff.
Deadly toxins still the beast
the hunter’s earned his next feast.
With smoking leaves and homemade axe,
high on the cliff, a young man hacks.
Angry voices fill the air
as honey bees protect their lair.
The raider drops his hard won prize
towards his family’s upturned eyes.
With nimble fingers they pluck at shrubs
collecting berries, leaves and grubs
or use sharp sticks to dig the soil
for roots and tubers they really toil.
Termite, lizard, frog and beetle
are normal fare for many people.
Heavy plant roars and rumbles
as from its bowels rubbish tumbles.
Across the piles of fetid waste
figures dash with frenzied haste
to gather scraps, with naked hands,
that filled the city’s garbage cans.
A wonky wheel on the trolley
woke her babe which sucks a dummy.
She moves along the sterile aisle
and flashes staff a plastic smile,
selects produce that bears no scar,
then pays and races to her car.
John Carré Buchanan
04 September 2015