Oh Leather Lane, where centuries convene,
‘Twixt Hatton’s gleam and courts of grey and green,
The market stirs, a rumble in the dawn,
Four hundred years of bustle carried on.
A tumble of trade, a chorus of wight,
Where hawkers’ cries pierce through the grime,
Old hands and young in barter find their game,
Their voices weave a tune without a name.
Here curry’s spice with bygone fashions blend,
And jostling crowds like cheerful rivers bend,
The pub’s warm glow invites a merry throng,
Their laughter spills like notes of carefree song.
A stall unveiled, the sun in timid ray,
Reveals the relics of a bygone day,
In whispered deals over treasures yet unsold,
The tales of human life race to unfold.
Grandmother, grandson, with an eager eye,
Seek faded photos where old echoes lie,
A sense of home the bustling street bestows,
Where present hums with whispers of long ago.
This marketplace, with clamour and with cheer,
Holds timeless scenes to which our hearts draw near,
Where human hands and human spirits meet,
And life’s rich ramble dances in the street.
khushil.io 