Marketplace

 

This space is like a ghost town

Trestle tables row on row

Echoing with the hustle bustle

Vendors cries of long ago

 

I held my mother’s hand

And listened to them shout

‘apples sixpence a pound

Come on get your money out!’

 

Comics stored in cardboard boxes

Toys stacked high on stands

Gleaming in the Friday sun

Just out of reach of sticky hands

 

Fruit of every hue and colour

Potted beef and cuts of ham

Fresh cakes filled with layers of cream

Jars of marmalade and jam

 

A carousel with blaring music

A café selling pots of tea

bacon sandwiches for a shilling

all this for just my mum and me

 

I went back there when I was home

All that was left were wooden frames

And rotting boards of each seller’s plot

The faint letters of stall holder’s names

 

Another piece of childhood gone

Where every class of soul would meet

To buy and sell and gossip hard

Amongst the stalls on Market Street

 

 

*Note: there has been some poetic licence in the street location for Wakefield Market where the poem is based around