Cold morning musings
cold stone arches over me
cool winds blow through me.
Traffic flows at full ebb, commuters in their shells, couriers
all on journeys I can only guess at, as I sit and wait for my own journey to begin again.
Then I see, just one or two almost lost in the river of travelers, vegetables, fruit packed tight.
And so I imagine it's journey from Flemington, from the new market to the old.
How many hands does my food pass through before it reaches mine?
When I reach my destination, step through my front door,
Which journey is longer, mine or my foods.