Lowry

Grandad loved pastels.
His temper could be nasty.
His Lowrys were meticulous,
if perhaps a little crowded.

Nan would cook and run us baths.
Peel carrots at the same time as
booking hair appointments,
Picking us up, running to church meetings
With her bulbous homemade trifles.

Could he have painted her, in all that glory?
His wife of fifty years, with not an ounce of the rule or reason
He so worshipped in her body.
Perhaps he missed
The shine of her coat -
That nutmeg in the mashed potato -
Those dimples sitting, in their quiet wisdom,
Above her tired smile.