Lund Church, view from Lund Moor Farm as Barbara flees...

View from near Lund Moor Farm, on the edge of a field looking towards Lund church. 

14x11 inches, oil on canvas board, POA.

 

1st March 2022.     

Driving here, I am listening to the news, hearing from Barbara an 8-year-old girl, one of 3 children who are in a car fleeing Ukraine. Her father translates, as she speaks, she is on the radio as I drive, all she wants is peace. A child wanting peace.

She explained  how the war in Ukraine was affecting her, 

I listen intently, 

totally transfixed as her father translates her words, 

I am in a car driving along quiet lanes in beautiful East Yorkshire, 

listening live, 

to this little family who are passing through check points,

in their car

.....and I realise I am in tears. 

 

 

 

I pull over, onto a grass verge near Lund Moor Farm and walk the slippery path to Wayne's 'bluebell wood'. I know it is too soon  to see any bluebells but I need some fresh air, George needs a walk. Though sunny, it is cold in the wood and the wind forces me to leave. I walk back to the smooth, dry road, and walk away, a silent, ghost cyclist passes from behind. Along the roadside, passing clusters of snowdrops I can see a field through the woodland on my right.  I decide to try and reach it. The woodland floor is covered with tenacious tripping brambles, they watch as we zig zag through,  thin tendril thorny arms hook my feet and I need to be careful. This little woodland is 'Springing' into life, glossy green leaves pushing upwards, looking for the light, eventually providing a bluebell carpet of hope. Emerging into the warm spring sun, at the far side of the wood, I calculate that I have a couple of hours left to paint something, looking across the field can see the bulk of All Saints Church. 

I stop and set up the pochard box and begin to paint.

 

In a distant field I see a hare and smile.

The centuries old church, awakens thoughts,

How, in times past, reapers sought

Spiritual guidance and salvation,

Toiling in pre-enclosured fields,

Closer to the seasons,

Closer to the land.

Secure. 

 

George is at my feet,

Lying on an empty rucksack,

He is enjoying the Sun on his back.

 

I see another hare …

Now making a pair…

In an artificially bright, 

Sunlit field.

Sitting in the open,

Maybe they are omen.

And Barbara is safe.

I stand at the edge of the field, listening to birds singing. In the distance cruel crows caw and wheel over a nearby wood, across a field to my right. It seems full of very tall slender trees, a vertiginous a slow growing crop…it is the secret bluebell wood, where I had walked earlier. The tall trees remain undressed and skeletal as we emerge from winter, it will make a nice subject to paint if I am quick. ( Something like what my friend Hockney did over at Warter). It is too early, but I wonder if we will have peace before the bluebells flower. 

I finish the painting and realise my jacket arm has been rubbing the yellow paint, and I think yellow and blue, yellow and blue. Elsewhere woodpeckers drum sharply sounding like distant artillery, and I think of a young girl hoping for peace..