The Witton Parker

Edna Scott from A Breath of Coal Dust

Built to a common pattern,

Slight frame, with swarthy skin,

A woodbine dangling from his lips,

Long stubble on his chin,

A thin scarf knotted at the neck,

Tucked in an open shirt,

And over that, gained on his rounds,

A torn and sagging coat.

He drove a little pony,

Well-fed, alert and smart,

While balanced on the corner of

An ageing, painted cart.

On his coarse cry of "Rag a Bone"

The womenfolk would run

With armfuls of old clothes,

To swap for bits of scoury stone.

Then, on another visit,

There’d be a different barter,

For metal scrap he’d pour a goldfish

In your jar of water.

When gluts of summer herring came

Into a North Sea port,

He’d come again, with skips

Of gleaming herring on his cart,

Sometimes as late as eight o’clock

The housewives took their dishes,

For crisp, delicious suppers

Made from three-a-penny fishes.

And in the depths of winter,

When twelve struck the New Year,

In strangely nasal tones

A New Year’s carol you would hear.

In hope that you would ask him in

To be your dubious guide

Throughout the year that lay ahead,

With good luck on your side.

Because you’d crossed his palm

As he came in, out of the dark,

That foreign, furtive gentleman,

The lad from Witton Park.

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