A Sunday in summer, around, say, '02
Was the simple template for the pleasures best
That were offered by the district of Lindsey West
The market at Hemswell, I would rather go to
No other place. On a busy day of rest
A homespun vista of stalls, cars, burger vans
Palisaded in depth with endless trinkets, toys,
Garden tools, clothes, books, pots and pans,
Mysterious non-electric machines, and noise
From inflatable slides, favourites for girls and boys
Kicking up the dusty, snaking path parallel framed
With sellers and their wares, a gazebo from a car's boot
Symphony of radios under ice cream truck roofs
A cheeseburger of ample size, bags of sweets, all the same
Generous price, an humble Pound, buying everlasting fame
The gold, real substance, was pirated movies encased
In rough plastic, pixelated covers dubiously showing
Said film, shot by hand in an American 'theater', slowing
Anticipation for excitement; thus was the case
For entertainment, old school mischief glowing
From the outer field, ex-RAF base, we made our way thence
To the indoor stalls, for a cafe, or a stately house
With winding halls and rooms filled yet more hence
History collected on a stenciled tin, beyond a fence
And trees, the market in lowing sunlight doused
Late afternoon, and the fayre runs down, the cars
Packed up lighter, gaps in the bootleg wall appear
As people and goods slough off, and with them we go back to ours
With a movie, or a poster, or another small well of cheer
Legendary prizes of those golden uncomplicated hours.
@nepion_boreas17
