by Chris Clark
Sitting, I stare at my image in the dressing table mirror, and imagine the concealed, sliver of pale scalp, exposed beneath.
Echoes of a condemning voice, its disapproving accent forged in unforgiving coal seams, resonate from latent dust particles.
Teenage shoplifting eyes flit across the reflection with wondrous acceptance, as despised stubble, emerges from the long night.
Seeking fingertips delicately painted, search the contours of my face for recognition.
The smooth creaseless forehead, dark plucked brows, full lips, everything as it was where it’s always been, yet today different, permanent.
Finally the lid of the dressing up box need never be closed again.
Chris Clark lives in Leyland, the home of Leyland Motors.