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MARKET    IN    BRITTANY,     FRANCE

Lost my kids once just for a  minute   or so  in the market:   needle in haystack.
Busy and purposeful Sunday morning. Fascinating   bee hive but I wanted my kids  back

Thought they might be next to the glass beads jostling and rattling on a necklace chain,
Or near  the  polished fossils, and  bags clinking their collections sea-shells  from Spain.
I squinted for their faces in the crowd, as rows of cheap eyeglasses looked  invitingly  
Over  at the gaudily-decorated casual  shoes,  just arrived breathless from Turkey; 
And stalls overflowing with flame-coloured dresses - Moroccan,  from Agadir  -
Trying to inch  down to the ground like wriggling children. But not my children dear.	

Toy insects  buzzing joyfully and  plastic windmills whirring playfully in the breeze
And serious-minded compasses busy seeking north didn’t fill my search with ease.      

Noisy price-haggling. African traders switching from the language of Germany to Wales, 
or even to Arabic, as they sensed customers's  different interests and possible  sales.
Chinese and Vietnamese  comparing views in French, their only common tongue.
No doubt,  my three had slipped their leash   and were hiding:  they were young.

The swish of the decorative paper garlands  in the breeze  was near-lost in the crowd;
And the  conflict  between Breton folk-music   and American heavy-metal rock so loud. 
And   I listened to  the   colourful chatter pulsate 
Of  traders trying   to persuade money to leave your wallet.
Girls  in sandals and sunglasses.   Old ladies in floral patterns and blue-rinsed hair.
Young men eyeing   girls trying on dresses ……  but my three were not there.

Ah  - but  then!  At the ice cream stall I saw  three hungry mouths,  kept 
Pressed to the glass.     Three  money-less  urchins  all glad to see dad.  I swept  
Them  up   in my arms and started to relax and enjoy the market.
I’d lost my kids for just about  one minute.
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