Turnstones On The Tyne Poem by Paul Reed

The river,
Grimy and winding,
Silent, patiently flowing,
Knowing it's place,
Sprung from it's source,
Knowing where it's going;

Rocks and boulders,
Bedraggling the banks,
Listening to the fall and rise,
Waders turning stones,
Seaweed-picking,
Under December skies;

Safe pier standing,
Keeping guard,
Grey in it's concrete skin,
It will still be there
When we have left
To let the night begin.