Any old iron! Any old iron!”
He shouts and his horse whinnies,
as they turn towards the lopsided
cottage and hear the to do.

His cart trundles four wheels
each with a name: Yin and Yang,
Life, Coincidence and Fate
up the old straight track.

The cosmogonic waistcoat
rocks an unchopped log
like a chair with his guffaws.
His wife in full harangue

raises a meteor like rolling pin
above his head. “Good day kindfolk.”
says the pedlar, as he sweeps
open his coat. “Perhaps,

an “I can explain.” or
and “You can still make choices.”
“Your horse looks knackered.”
says the woman. “I’ll fetch

some water and a bit of grain.
Nowt original for sale, again.”
“Tropes are never original.”
answers the pedlar. “It’s why

they’re tropes.” “Ha.” says
waistcoat “You fall for it every time.
She yanks your chain o’ being.
You’ll not forego supper with us.”

And smartly trips over the log,
Christmas angels the dust,
rises brushes himself down
and his laugh echoes all around.