As I walk past the river Tyne,
I like to think of water droplets
As thoughts unspoken moving on the string of time.
The lone fisherman casts his line come what may,
Tears of laughter, times of fear and doubt,
The rain, the rock, the river washes all away.
So again I howl to the moon,
Whilst ripples shine and disintegrate like mica
And it pulls on me like a junkie spoon.
It takes hold and torments me,
With memories of moons past
It sparks an internal incendiary.
But the river calms with gentle lullaby,
I turn away and shiver
As another million thoughts flow by and reflect the sky.
Lived here less than a year but can tell tales,
See myself in the river
The magpies, and the brown ale.
It’s a cold night the rain’s turned my hands to sleet,
And I’m done, I’m going home
I need something warm to eat.
There was something important I wanted to say,
About the cold and how a heart can be turned to stone
But that’ll have to wait for another day,
Because the river’s already washed that thought away.