Poetry

The Moor, Sheffield

Daybreak brings
the slow snarl of the vans,
sounds as sinister as a Gulag carrier. 

The familiar clanking gives rise to
row upon row of dog biscuits, flowers and e-cigs
artfully displayed under each canopy.

Mid-morning
frazzled faces ferret out
cheap, cheaper, cheapest
pint of milk, sprig of parsley or garbage bag.

Pigeons strut aimlessly,
the cold has clamped their speech.
the guitarist keeps an eye on the coins,
as grandpa goes for the sausage roll.

Mid-afternoon
Crawshaw’s cry hits a crescendo
and the market reaches out with
shouts of ‘cheers’ and ‘ love’. Ta.

In the evening light
jumpers and boots look forlorn,
while the walkers hurry home
abandoning the frenzy of the square.

Night falls
on the partygoer tottering home,
the suitcases stand sentinel
watching the Moor, from head to foot.

Zarin Virji