Barrowboy

Quietly the street vendor shuffles,
his barrow heavy against his body,
the early morning mists shroud
the narrow, cobblestone streets.
Thin shafts of light from curtained windows
break the still greyness, and dark shapes scurry in
and out of focus, like lost spirits, searching for respite.
The market place is now close by,
the hubbub of a hundred merchants
fills his ears, as those familiar sounds,
smells and sights invade his awaking senses.
Hurriedly now he takes up his dilapidating
stall, a jigsaw of ancient and renewed,
fabricated over many years; to exhibit
his meagre wares; for squire and vagabond,
barter and haggle, one after the other.
Many the long hour he spents, day following day,
in this his crowded solitude, try as he may
to make a penny or two, to pay the landlord
what the landlord thinks the debt is due.