Peter Branson

On Red Hill

We scaled Red Hill as kids, passed council homes
and coppice, farm track, steeds in tow, crossed mill-
pond’s dry pie-crust to outlaw-tumbling wood,
wild bikes to stow, wolf-heads beyond barbed wire.
What dwarfed the church and narrow minding streets,
in my child’s view, is gentle slope today,
to silent fields where lark and lapwing thrived,
the Peaks a dozen haze-blue miles, beyond
the consequence of Manifold and Dove.
My father, grandfather, died satisfied,
the Welfare State and workers rights, the world
they handed on: What would they make of us?
Their struggle thwarted, ours has just begun;
mountains to climb, fresh battles to be won.

Peter Branson © 2013