The mill looms hulking in the dim distance,

looms now long-stilled but filled with pictures

 

crafted by Hockney, some of his Bradford

long-remembered when he as a lad, would

 

sketch the hills and mills with broad strokes

but some more contemporary: coal smoke

 

swapped for cooler pool or beach scenes

or the bold new Wolds canvases: deep greens

 

and thick lines of the worked woodlands.

Does the stern Church look on in judgement?

 

Salt's glum tabernacle should shun such fun

in austere times; there seems not much room

 

for frippery yet can we not set our eyes on

a rising phoenix on the far-flung horizon?

 

The hulk of Westfield in the wrecked centre

mirrors the mills and reminds it is meant for

 

a fiscal revival in the dismally drab part,

a future rival for the flick-of-the-fag art

 

as Bradford once more means to be chic Queen

of Yorkshire, and this is no slim dream.