Concrete and Clay

As I strolled, perhaps negligently, along Rye Lane the other week, gazing towards evangelicals and butchers shops, careful not to sully my new shoes in discarded fish ice or phonecards, I caught sight of a reflection in a particular window that chilled me to the very bone. Even now I find my fingers recalcitrant in their reluctance to relive the horror that jolted along my spine like a flat-footed step off of a pavement that day.