345

No spitting was allowed on tram 345
as she wended her way
under leaden Leodensian skies
to Roundhay via Harehills

A pre-war relic
broken down and
discarded in the sheds
She waited

While her siblings
were replaced on the shiny
tracks that glistened with
the remnants of drizzle
in the pale morning sunlight

The bell rang one last time
for the hard-working
electric carriages
as they were dispatched for scrap

Except for 345;
rescued and sent to
the verdant Derbyshire peaks
to live with her multi-coloured
cousins

Restored to glide past trees
and farms
Views so very different
to those

seen by workers at the factories,
mothers shopping and
bankers bound for
suburban teatime
from the bustle of the city.

Filled now by tourists
the old lady trundles her way
up and down the hill
and still insists that
no spitting be allowed
on tram 345

(c) Tim Fellows 2017