Gyroscope Review 15-3 - Page 52

that seeps between chantry stones, takes on no airs, graces no one’s table, but froths, swirls, swills from rivulets and rills to riot and uproot trees along her length. She defies construction all the way from Wallington’s Roman view to Cambois’ open mouth. There she hears the call of gulls, tastes salt and heads out to sea as did Collingwood; admirable admiral he who once captained by her banks. And she too will prevail because the heart of Northumberland beats within her. She is a river formed from crags and carries with her the sweet hope of larger waters. Her song is siren. Her bed is hard. Her destiny remains unmapped.
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