The Day I Saw Lowry

  by David Chorlton

Mister Lowry’s paintings were a frank
depiction of our smokestacked
skylines and the streets that ran from brown
to grey and back again
with people staring hard at walls
as if it were possible to see
through them. The workers

bore a pallor only those for whom
there is no sun
can have. They trudged
through narrow lanes whose winding
familiarity led them through the routine
days into the routine nights
and Lowry followed
all the way. One afternoon I saw

him in his raincoat
standing underneath a cloud
with a chill at the end of his nose.
Industry’s fingerprints
were on every building, gate
and doorway. I wanted to be somewhere
else: in a country

whose language was mystery
and where the light belonged to one
and all. But Lowry had no need
of imagination. He never moved
all the time I stared, wondering
whether it was really him, amazed
that he belonged without resentment.