Marketplace

 

This space is like a ghost town

Trestle tables row on row

Echoing with the hustle bustle

Vendors cries of long ago

I hold my mother’s hand

And listen to them shout

‘apples sixpence a pound

Come on get your money out!’

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

A carousel with blaring music

A café selling pots of tea

bacon sandwiches for a shilling

all this for just my mum and me

Another piece of childhood gone

Where every class of soul would meet

To buy and sell and gossip hard

Amongst the stalls beside Brook Street

 

Sometimes it hurts to return to the past

When all that’s left are sad old ghosts

Of better times that couldn’t last

And the bones of long forgotten hosts

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

 

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