His teas in a barrow Loaded on one wheel like sod, He coughs as he pushes it forward. It is early morning But he is a long way from the market And slow as the creep Of soil. It is raining, He places a tea towel on his barrow And drives on scattering The robins and wrens. He is the small man with an Eskimo lung And it is already afternoon Before he pitches up and drops His hat and mumbles and smiles And makes enough for a woollen fleece By the end of it.