Again the air is still
the mist hangs silken folds
shadows in the curtains
waiting for the sun,
desultory shutters in the streets
roll back,shirts and shoes
early tea and breakfast
beside the bus stop's rumble.
Friday market bargains
unsigned vans spilling
well known brands at half the price,
kaleidescopic nations,babel tongues
jingling coins in apron folds.
Here since thirteen hundred
its charter on the wall,
the very heart of town
four times a week,'til four,
wrapped in Victorian splendour.
You'll find it here,what e're you want,
if not they'll get it for you.