off my chest

We,
the ones just walking through the never-ending masterpiece
leaving paint spots, dabs at raindrops, see the sunshine, hold these hands of mine the artist says.
each day scroll
white steam that rises from the freshly painted stack of coal,
lights and yonder brighter. might a poet have his turn?
the artist and the beggar each take sides to sketch the roundabout
and off it spins, the artist twins each colour with another,
Lowry meets up with his Mother at the factory gate
spindly rainbow cats wait by the dairy
and all the time it takes for the canvas to rotate,
we wait for the days to glow.

© 2020, John Smallshaw.