Stall

In the market’s hushed morning light,
A wooden stall stands patient, bright,
Its canvas awning, striped in blue,
Shelters wares both old and new.

Apples gleam like polished stone,
Loaves of crusty bread are shown,
While fragrant herbs in bunches lie,
And bunches of violets sigh.

A kindly voice, with accent soft,
Calls out the day's benign aloft,
“Fresh as dew, and sweet as spring—
Come, dear friend, what joy you’ll bring!”

Children pause, their eyes aglow,
Fingers trace the wares below,
Elderly folk with wistful grin
Recall the stalls where life began.

Yet sometimes, when the clouds grow grey,
And rain drums a steady, grey ballet,
The stall becomes a quiet refuge,
A steadfast harbour, a gentle refuge.

For in its simple, humble frame,
It holds more than just trade’s acclaim—
It cradles stories, hopes, and dreams,
A stall that time itself redeems.