Shy man
in the Castle Hotel.
He clangs the bell
and leans over Marjorie,
chats her up with a sketch.
She giggles at his shyness.
His old boots squeak the floorboards of memory,
his heart is sad and soaked in loneliness.
Eyes peel in the morning sun
and off he heads
for Spittal light,
on he wanders
pale and drawn over the seaside stubble.
Strides our man Lowry,
bold along the seafront
in search of a hand to hold.
Day damp,
frown on this paintbrush,
town on his palette.
Clouds scud over Spittal,
days are lost.
Smoke from the factory,
dreams from the chimney.
This wee girl in red pops up,
bobs like a buoy on his canvas.
He wants her smile,
she poses one for him.
Grab the moment.
Lowry lost in driftwood,
reeking of fish.
Wander to bed,
dream of the swans
and the mouth of the Tweed.
KEITH ARMSTRONG
(from 'The Month of the Asparagus', Ward Wood Publishing)
