The Moor, Sheffield

Daybreak brings the slow snarl of the vans, sounds as sinister as a Gulag carrier. The familiar clanking gives rise to row upon row of dog biscuits, flowers and e-cigs artfully displayed under each canopy. Mid-morning frazzled faces ferret out cheap, cheaper, cheapest pint of milk, sprig of parsley or garbage bag. Pigeons strut aimlessly, the cold has clamped their speech. the guitarist keeps an eye on the coins, as grandpa goes for the sausage roll. Mid-afternoon Crawshaw’s cry hits a crescendo and the market reaches out with shouts of ‘cheers’ and ‘ love’. Ta. In the evening light jumpers and boots look forlorn, while the walkers hurry home abandoning the frenzy of the square. Night falls on the partygoer tottering home, the suitcases stand sentinel watching the Moor, from head to foot.

Zarin Virji