Before I knew what the Pennines were,
I knew they were to be crossed.

The first ascent was from platform
To train, parental arms compensating
For infant legs, tired by the short
But windswept wait overlooking
The dour mills of Stalybridge.

Back then, the colour was blue:
A blue locomotive hauled
A blue train while a blue Government
Plotted the demise of both.

All I remember of the journey are
Blue seats and Huddersfield,
Which was to me merely
A great iron roof that I realise now
Meant I didn’t know the place at all.

Leeds always came quickly,
With its filthy subway and
More bus shelters than people
On Aire Street.

Somehow, that is something that
Seems never to change: a small patch
Of Sunday morning in a city
That never rests, that seems overlooked
Like the maze of factories
The buses navigate but I still can’t.

Perhaps, one Friday morning, I will
Do it the old way again, trading
The bustling chaos of Manchester
For the gaunt quiet of Stalybridge,
Somewhere I feel destined never to know.

When I stand upon the edge,
It will be not my parents’ arms that lift me
But my own, heaving far more weight
Than they did towards a city that is
No longer a second home.

02/08/2017

Posted on 03/05/2017
Copyright © 2024 Richard Vince