Glasgow voices shout two for a pound, amongst piles of ragged clothing, puddles and junk cover the ground as people scramble to get a bargain. A man tries on a pair of glasses amongst a huge pile on a barrow, squinting until he could see through them fifty pence shouts the hawker. A wee boy selling superman comics is laughing. A old lady sits knitting a scarf selling lighters and roll up tobacco. It's a Saturday afternoon and celtic supporters are singing as they make a bee line to the Empire bar.
Michael Cochrane ©
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem