by Jack Barker-Clark Ezekiel See Soon we were rained on, a light drizzle of chamber music. We flickered in the moonlit petrol station, the ambient forecourt with the ring of poplars, the moonlight and neon, a wagon playing Dvořák, while drivers pumped unleaded, the emotionally ravishing music surging out through the darkness. It was spring. The endless neon light smashed against the trees while Thom’s low-slung head disappeared and reappeared from between the pumps and bonnet