I pass through in the evening. Quiet now.
The wind gently rattles the metal shutters.
Enclosed behind the soft cotton, the spools of thread.

Only the syllables of footsteps sound through the tunnels,
dampening as they go, loud ahead. Muted mutters
and chants afar from the local beer and cider bar.

Some say if you’re still, if you hold your breath,
you can hear the echo of all sellers. Past, present, future,
each contesting wind, each rivalling the drawling traffic anthem.

“We sew, we cut, we mend. Fabric for sale in the west market end.”