When I was a kid
The stalls
In the Market Hall
Were made of moveable slabs of plastic,
Salmon coloured and glacier mint shaped,
And draped with the scrawniest adornments,
But containing the rarest produce around:
Whether confectionary collected
From the four corners of factory floors
Or American comic books stacked so high
That the proprietor didn’t have a clue about their value,
Or traders with similar gifts to thrift stores
But without the charitable clout behind them,
And whose ephemera had more memories
Than the customers who should have
Recollected selling it months ago.
And along the seductive rows of fresh produce
There was always an unknown fruit
Or vegetable that made you wonder how edible it was
Or whether it belonged to a different store completely.
And heat was provided by several levitated radiators
That seemed to throw their glow ever angrier
And dared you to care that they barked at you
Without grates to contain their favours,
But then they appeared so high as to be outside
The remit of the building’s ceiling,
And sparked by sun-fire itself,
And the old Victorian bazaar
Was only open at the weekend
And seemed to end no sooner than begun,
Or so I recall,
And all in all
Its business was richer
To me back then,
But I was only
Ten.
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