Walking along the Tees
We fancied we could catch,
Between a xylophone of water
Over stones, between
The bosun's whistle of the plover,
A rumour of the Fall.
After the picnic among junipers,
Lying in sunshine with our cheeks
To the cool grass,
We certainly detected,
Like a purring of the earth,
Vibrations of the Fall.
And yet, all unprepared
We came out at the ‘Viewpoint’,
Stood aghast at the appalling roar,
Like the last throes
Of some great primitive beast,
— Plunging to its death.
© The Estate of Dorothy Cowlin 2002–2021. All rights reserved.