Throw the grey underbellies from the clouds of rain-laden skies onto a canvas, and I am looking at The Painter - and she looks back at me.

Looks at me as much as she looks through me
with eyes tired and understanding,
of knowing what she must do next, not quite sure when to do it though.

A tired and empathetic mirror carefully crafted that you only see yourself if you stand and look for long enough.