Out of breath on my way up on to the roof of the Newarke Street Car Park I stop to look through the round unglazed window on what must have been the 8th floor landing.
There is metal grill across its open portal, which at first glance, looks like the lead in a glass window.
Almost church like, save for the cold breeze rushing through, it could be stained glass.
I’m drawn to four straight lines of mortar at the bottom centre of the brick roundel. They take on some significance.
From a long line of bricklayers though not one myself, I feel the brickie’s past presence as he tries to finish this brick circle neatly.
Breath caught, I run the last two flights of stairs, push open the heavy blue door and walk out on to the ice cold roof top space, my eyes squinted by the November sun.
sand and cement
a three to one mix
drunk off in the pub