Stepping into rue de Teinturers
my eyes were drawn
to the big, mossy,
slow-turning spoked wheel,
churning dark canal water,
then ahead, to the even,
deliberate steps of a woman
with her shopping bag,
on the mis-cobbled Avignon street
(narrow footpaths on either side
clogged with cafe chairs, detritus)
and to the driver of the mini-bus
inching along behind, stacked
with sitters. The three
rolled on, urgentlessly.
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