By Rowan Blair Colver
Where the rock dove calls,
Through the tall corridor,
Raw meats piled,
Fresh vegetables due,
The reversal alarm,
Warns of blindness,
While charmed traders huddle,
To barter their troubles,
And tired-faced convoys,
Shuffle and deploy,
The goods by the palette,
And crate,
Latecomers now bustle
With apron and muttering,
Excuses to stern eyes on high,,
A cough from a ragged coat,
Blanket and flat cap float,
Rattles past labouring souls,
One offers over-alls,
And points to a sign,
Vacancy here no experience required,
While considering the idea,
Over a free can of beer,
The next day he found a new side,
The sign still hangs freely,
On the market window gleaming,
Above the butcher called Sid's Rib and Hide.