Outside this window is a Lowry.
Thick white sky, painted around
stiff terracotta chimney pots:
not quite straight/ smoke can’t
travel in a line/ people relate
to imperfect things, anyhow.
Stick men trapped in tableau
of oil and turpentine; a mass
of layers and fixings; my viscous
realisation of you. Elucidation
in snow and gloom; in bright
white pain; or grey confusion.
Noxious candyfloss urban scene;
a city with black lungs;
factories puffing dirty smokers’
breath into claustrophobic panorama.
You, flattered with colour;
naïve; matchstick unstruck.
This window does not complicate.
It caught you in a grid:
You wouldn’t recognise yourself.
Still, I see so much of myself,
in what I’ve made of you.
Amy Louise Wyatt
Amy Louise Wyatt is a lecturer, poet and artist from Bangor, N.I. She has had work published in a range of literary journals and magazines. Amy has read her poetry on The BBC Arts Show and at festivals throughout Ireland . She is the editor of The Bangor Literary Journal and was shortlisted for the Seamus Heaney Award for New Writing 2018. amylouisewyatt.com
The Ekphrastic Review
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