Flower Market

The sixteen of us were packed between stalls upon stalls of petals and shrubs, sardined in the tight street, each of our steps ever so small as we meandered through the flower market. Perfume from fresh cut plants filled the crisp afternoon air. 

The echoing chorus of the venders.

Men and women, sounding a like in a horse, worn out tone,

All yelling for the same thing - to sell the last plants of the day:

"Two plants for a fiver!"

"20 roses, 20 roses for a fiver!"

"Three plants for a fiver, they'll serve you well."

They looked tired. The market had opened at 6 a.m. and they were trying to sell off the last of their products. We had been walking around since 10 a.m., visiting six separate markets around the Liverpool Tube Station, the oldest being the flower market.

It happens only on Sundays during the summer. It has most likely ended by now.
The cool Autumn air has arrived and the potted plants we purchased that once filled out flat with life are now drying.