A long autumn sun warms the gravestones at Holy Trinity. In the mid-distance a swathe of grass known locally as The Mystery, flanked by a row of trees bent eastwards by years of westerly winds. Language and landscape merge poetically at this spot. This is an old corner of England, subsumed in the 19th century by the expanding terraces and streets; passed daily by thousands, blue blazers, buses and busy lives.
This is a small field sketch painted in around an hour capturing the last of the sun, and the last perhaps of that summer. In the distance, Gilbert Scott’s sublime tower ever so subtly narrows over its 330ft height, I often think an elegant reminder of Lutyen’s cenotaph whose inclination points ever heavenwards.
Acrylic on board