Under Spilt Milk

AS dawn lights the day in puce aurora, the leeward leaning town is stirring now. Mrs Agnes Gilfinnan of 37 Inkerman Road is shaking the haddocks out of her slippers. “They fair keep them in shape,” she will say to any quisling detractor. But the smell, Mrs Gilfinnan! “Mind your own,” she retorts. Glossy feathered blackbirds poke their beaks into the crystalled snow, hoping that the worms are not  as stiff as guardsmen in their icy entombment.
    At number 22, a man clicks his shutter to embrace the fledgling day.
These three pictures, presented in time order, were each five minutes apart.