after JMW Turner
These buckets are heavy, brim—
ful of apples from market.
The meat in my basket smells sweet
against the chimney smoke. That bloke
by the bridge, in the shadow of The Ship,
looks queer — 'sif he'd do himself in
an' 'er stubborn horse is braying, refusing
to go near the shouts of the traders.
Bet he thinks he's for the knackers.
Grey weather coming, I see.
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