POEM OF THE DAY

THE ROUTE

By Scaffold Hill this trail begins, near golden corn and ferns.

The purest stream with life would teem at every single twist and turn. The route she took this tiny brook past fields of wheat that swayed. Where so sweetly sang the skylarks, In the blue sky as we played. My friends and I would often spy, the creatures of this place.

All those painted lady butterflies, March hares engaged in chase. Then neath a concrete road she goes and into the unspoiled burn. A place that harboured newts and toads for such times my heart yearns.

Where feet had been aside the stream there’s a well worn path of clay

The place I lived the boyhood dream and so often made my way. The down slope is more steep in grade where Wallsend’s water fall...

Drops suddenly in a white cascade, like a five foot frothing wall.

And slowly now where once the cows were watered twice each day.

Then a change in course as joining force she snakes her Southward way. Into the burn there’s twists and turns then she seeps into the Gut.

Where once alive great factories thrived and the huge steel Arches jut

Slow, dark and deep this tidal seep does rise and fall each day.

And twice daily muddy waters creep, then the boats can sail away.

Out to the Tyne great love of mine she winds her slow way East. As she’s done for the longest time, ten thousand years at least.