River Tyne

A gust of cooling breeze blowing downriver freshingly
cut through the summer fug.
High up on the bridge I vantaged upriver. Yes there
they were, dirty, black grey cumulous making their
way to the sea. Wind tossed, white foam capped
waves forecasting their imminent arrival.

The Tyne shivered, rippled then quickened to the
bidding of the westerly. Dancing and frolicing on
megapod feet of bridges. Tumbling brown waters
commotioned, lashing quaysides as it passed.
Boats in marinas bobbed and curtsied to her antics,
startling protesting kittiwakes into raucous flight.

Gone the shining glinting ribbon, placid sheen. River
Tyne had come alive. Vibrant, her power displayed to
all. Snaking, shimmying through the long chicane.
Ebb and flow confused in the rush; no skerries of
flotsam or jetsam, just scattered debris churned in
the boiling waters. The race to the sea, "��Needs must."

R��

Cheers Tazz