Observing L.S. Lowry’s people between the mills they circulate figures in coats and scarves and outsized hats, the dogs and cripples the mothers who push prams on ash-coloured pavements twig-legged children with pit-boot hoofs kick stones down steep brick stairs whilst forward-sloping fathers forge along beside iron railings like the smell of last night’s dinner he’s put them in everywhere all of Stockport moving sideways through din and smoke and the viaduct above them all Ross Jackson   Scraps of my beginning instead of kindy, learning was listening to Portia Faces Life day-time radio soap for mums, we rode via…