I
The Tyne is still, the water’s calm,
a restful, reassuring balm.
In Newcastle our train has stopped.
From here it seems the perfect spot.
Where the iconic bridges span,
where, once,a different river ran;
well, different water, anyway,
flowing on into yesterday.
An errant cloud floats in the sky,
as if it’s only passing by.
Nimble fingers unpick its seams;
on water sunlight softly gleams.
Transporting good to buy and sell;
the stories this river could tell!
Riverside harbours, wharfs and docks,
today replaced by concrete blocks.
Where there was muck once there was brass;
now buildings of shimmering glass,
high-tech hubs, computer centres;
the past flees; the future enters.
Newcastle, grimy, built on coal;
Have you now sold your northern soul?
Those hardy people of the past?
How long will their memory last?
II
Will the march of modernism harm
that fabled humour, Geordie charm?
Will your essential being change,
or will it just remain the same?
We’re too busy with our smartphones
to dwell on our ancestors’ bones.
To get on Youtube; that’s our goal;
we are not used to heaving coal.
Those people, they belong to then;
yet the people now come from them.
Through generations runs a thread;
by shared history are they wed.
Yet, perhaps, they who once were here,
who, too, enjoyed a pint of beer,
are still with us; at least in thought,
their lives unfinished; dreams still sought.
Will our hopes, too, be unfulfilled,
our vision struck, our voices stilled?
We share with them. husband and wife,
the fickle randomness of life.
Now the train jolts into motion
and dispels my idle notions.
One final glance, one final time.
The Tyne is still; and still the Tyne.
