sat in crumbling doorways,
wore sacking aprons
and men’s flat caps.
Narrowed eyes watched
customers pick through
old linen, chipped china.
Sometimes, a market stall—
more often a tablecloth
on the damp pavement—
apples or eggs or trinkets,
field flowers, children’s clothes,
mended pots and pans.
Each woman smoked
a clay pipe, the bowl turned
down in case it should rain.
