the boy who is only going to wakefield
works
with quiet concentration
his book is
bound in leather and its cover
boldly embossed:
the holy bible
his
holy bible
for this book has no words in it passed down
ecclesiastical
generations
this
is a book full of empty pages, it’s
his sketch book and in it
unperturbed by three pairs of eyes that belong to three nearly middle aged men sitting around him furtively trying to assess what he’s doing
he starts in his book a new page
it’s a concept, an
idea
and using two biros one black and one red he draws in quick confident strokes a structure, a pattern, and gives it the title
CONCEPT IDEA
he’s dressed for spring with a t-shirt and jacket and not without reason it’s mid-march already but the weather passing by the grubby windows of the east coast line train is cold and unfriendly most unlike he who is friendly and warm in the fleeting few moments we meet while he moves so i can get to my seat
he works fast and having heard him say that he’s only going to wakefield whilst making way for another passenger with a seat reserved next to the one he’s just moved to to make way for me it soon makes sense to me why: wakefield is only minutes from leeds and already the woman on the train announces we’ll shortly be arriving into it now.
everywhere we go on this train we arrive ‘into’, not ‘in’, which perplexes me somewhat though it’s clearly not wrong, neither grammatically nor contextually, seeing that we’re on the outside each time and heading into the station, the centre, the town, the whathaveyou, and the boy who is dressed for spring (i’m still wearing six layers, though i’ve temporarily shed two for the journey) packs his bible into his slender bag and without looking back or saying goodbye unwedges his slender body from twixt table and seat and
vacates
his briefly claimed place among us on the train
heads
for the exit
he may only be going to wakefield, this boy, but by his art
and to his art his
dedication
i fancy he might be going much further
and glancing outside i can’t help but hope that he does
but before i have time to reflect any more on the
wakefieldness
of it all
the train does indeed
much as had been foretold
arrive
into
wakefield
“home”
a drab sign, slightly battered, stands rainandwindswept to inform us “of the wakefield express”
which - and you can almost sense a train full of people nod in deep appreciation - is
“always first when it matters”
works
with quiet concentration
his book is
bound in leather and its cover
boldly embossed:
the holy bible
his
holy bible
for this book has no words in it passed down
ecclesiastical
generations
this
is a book full of empty pages, it’s
his sketch book and in it
unperturbed by three pairs of eyes that belong to three nearly middle aged men sitting around him furtively trying to assess what he’s doing
he starts in his book a new page
it’s a concept, an
idea
and using two biros one black and one red he draws in quick confident strokes a structure, a pattern, and gives it the title
CONCEPT IDEA
he’s dressed for spring with a t-shirt and jacket and not without reason it’s mid-march already but the weather passing by the grubby windows of the east coast line train is cold and unfriendly most unlike he who is friendly and warm in the fleeting few moments we meet while he moves so i can get to my seat
he works fast and having heard him say that he’s only going to wakefield whilst making way for another passenger with a seat reserved next to the one he’s just moved to to make way for me it soon makes sense to me why: wakefield is only minutes from leeds and already the woman on the train announces we’ll shortly be arriving into it now.
everywhere we go on this train we arrive ‘into’, not ‘in’, which perplexes me somewhat though it’s clearly not wrong, neither grammatically nor contextually, seeing that we’re on the outside each time and heading into the station, the centre, the town, the whathaveyou, and the boy who is dressed for spring (i’m still wearing six layers, though i’ve temporarily shed two for the journey) packs his bible into his slender bag and without looking back or saying goodbye unwedges his slender body from twixt table and seat and
vacates
his briefly claimed place among us on the train
heads
for the exit
he may only be going to wakefield, this boy, but by his art
and to his art his
dedication
i fancy he might be going much further
and glancing outside i can’t help but hope that he does
but before i have time to reflect any more on the
wakefieldness
of it all
the train does indeed
much as had been foretold
arrive
into
wakefield
“home”
a drab sign, slightly battered, stands rainandwindswept to inform us “of the wakefield express”
which - and you can almost sense a train full of people nod in deep appreciation - is
“always first when it matters”