AT STOCKPORT ART GALLERY

For him it looks so easy, nothing more,
the simple shapes and colours clear and bright.
He stares perplexed at what he thinks he sees.

In his day art was art and no mistake.
You judged a canvas by the craftsmanship.
For him it looks so easy, nothing more.

Easy is not how he’d describe his life,
the years of feeling useless and unloved.
He stares perplexed at what he thinks he sees.

There’s no accounting then for others' taste
since people pay good money for such stuff.
For him it looks so easy, nothing more.

He only came for somewhere warm and quiet
and now some third-rate painter’s wound him up.
He stares perplexed at what he thinks he sees.

There in the visitors’ book he signs his name.
“This is all rubbish. I could do better than that.”
For him it looks so easy, nothing more.
He stares perplexed at what he thinks he sees.

Earlier piece, first published in 'One Small Stride'

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