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.
Gyroscope Review 4! 3