BURY MARKET |
The market's full of people shopping,
people buying, people swapping.
Some people pushing,
a lot of them rushing1
women buying beans and peas,
"Some of them" and "Some of these".
People shuffle like beetles questing for
food and clothing on a dead tree spread
out on aged foundations,
branches of tarmac and concrete,
leaves of houses and shops.
On the rock cars crawl like woodlice
on busy unknown errands.
But how long will it be
before grass grows there?
MY STREET IN BURY
Silent, silent, all alone in bed.
Suddenly, slamming of doors, shouting of men,
cats miaowing, dogs barking, horns of cars,
can't get to sleep.
Pitch black all the night, all the night
until morning. Morning comes, cats miaowing,
dogs barking, horns of cars, all the time.
The aroma of cooking black puddings
gradually drifts over the market.
The strange smell has a sudden effect on me:
I cannot stop my legs from creeping to the stall.
My hands are itching to feel in my pocket for money.
It's too much, I can't stand the suspense
I feel in my pocket
but to my horror, there's nothing there, it's empty