Lyrics
Frost on the trestle tables, early light Crates of crooked apples stacked up tight A woman weighs the damsons in her hand And wraps them in a twist of brown paper The cheese man gives a crumb on a wooden knife The fiddler's by the van, tuning up for life A boy with a basket bigger than his knees Counts out his coins for a pear Saturday stalls and apple crates Everyone's a neighbour at the gates Carrots with the soil still on Bread that's warm, a morning song Saturday stalls and apple crates We carry home the leeks and a loaf of rye A jar of honey holding up the sky Our bags are heavy and our hearts are light We hum along to the fiddle on the way Saturday stalls and apple crates Everyone's a neighbour at the gates Carrots with the soil still on Bread that's warm, a morning song Saturday stalls and apple crates Hand to hand the change goes round Names are called across the ground Nothing here is far from home When the whole town's walking slow Saturday stalls and apple crates Everyone's a neighbour at the gates Carrots with the soil still on Bread that's warm, a morning song Saturday stalls and apple crates Apple crates, apple crates Saturday, and the day is ours