after a painting by Julie Aldridge
Perhaps the painter’s angry
with her art — the ocean — the gallery —
a comprehension that arrives too easily;
or is this simply Irish weather, stormscape
well-lived in unsettled blues, strong
undercoat of grey? What could it mean
that I look and can’t see? Perhaps
there’s no such thing as clarity.
In the middle ground, for instance,
an oblong labyrinth of mustard seed
or hay rolled tight, promise of
light unfurling, light you work to see.