At the farthest corner of the market, where
the pavement is still cobbled, there remains an
old style boozer, in which flat-capped men nurse pints
as dark as The Black Lamb’s wool. They wear roll-ups
as mock hearing aids and spit flecks of stray
tobacco onto a floor that should be strewn with
sawdust, but is threadbare carpet over boards
that creak like arthritic joints. Their gnarled hands are
missing shepherd crooks to complete a picture
last painted in the nineteen-fifties, when the light
through leaded windows was a murky monochrome.
There was a bovine solidity in
the pens outside, subverted by the squeal
of pigs awaiting slaughter. Now, the same space
is full of pirate DVDs and fashion fit
for chavs. The cries of traders have been replaced
by garage mix compilations blasting from
cheap speakers. Taciturn, the men continue
to sup ale and drown unspoken sorrows, for
there is nothing left on sale they need to buy.