He was nowt but a lad from the hairdresser’s shop.
Travelled north on his lofty pilgrimage.
It’s a no brainer at twenty-two.
Abbeys, castles, cathedrals abounded up north
He set out with his great coat, top hat,
sketch book, a box of paints
into the green wetness of Kirkstall
to shelter where a group of cows
shelter in the ancient dormitory undercroft
arched like a Moorish palace pierced by yellow sunlight,
flooded by cobalt blue
then sketch after sketch and the abbey was embalmed
in light strokes of graphite and brush strokes of colour.
Scintillating blue and gold tumble
from abbey to river weir. Ruined walls clothed in ivy and light
and the church tower glowing impeccably white
like the finger of an angel pointing to the sky
Here cows graze innocent fields.
Later will come wool, coal, industry, wealth.
He came with a box of paints and a dream.
To be an artist.
Eileen Neil