Vestiges

Coffin nail cry,
echoes down the backstreet;
any rags, any rags,
bring 'em out here.

Handcart clicked, rocked, clattered over cobbles,
stale 'baccy reverie woven into his coat;
rat-tailed guile lies in wait amidst his stubble,
all-weather pitch around an ochre-toothed smile.

Any rags, any rags;
sixpence for good 'uns
any rags, any rags,
any rags spare.

Net curtains twitch at the rattle-wheeled rumble,
washing on the line quickly counted by eye,
widowed-weeds of superstition
wrung behind the latched door;
she casts his presence as the taker of life.

Any rags, any rags,
old shoes and blankets;
any rags, any rags,
foul or fair.

Voice melts away in an ice-cream van jingle,
small hands scrabble for a sixpenny cone;
their Pa's best shirts traded for a moment
when sun shone again on a place called home.

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minor edit 20.04.09