Arashi

She has hair that flows down her back like rivers of the darkest silk.
A lazy smile she flashes when  you turn your head
beckoned by her perfume
and those anklets that sing.
( Are they silver?)

And  she is surrounded in that crowded little market by trinkets and cheap baubles that reflect the harsh sunlight and make her seem light years away rather than the four feet she really is.

The air around you should smell of smoke and sweat and lies and greed and money and sleaze and loss.
Instead, it smells faintly of summer oranges

and love.