Saturday afternoon on the Ridge by Lucy Newlyn
The wind is up – raking beeches,
stirring low among alder branches,
and bending the spindly trunks of birches.
Clearings are islands of traffic sound
blown up from the long grey
trailing ribbon of Meanwood road.
That disused bandstand is bleak
and marooned as a winter pier.
Out here, where the trees end,
wind buffets the sledge-slope,
thwacks the broad flat face
of Ridge terrace like a cliff.
High over house-tops,
gulls tumble and cry – circling,
circling in the empty air.
Here all the ginnels come to a stop.
Land falls away. Sugarwell
is folded in distant greenness,
and Meanwood has been
far out at sea all day.