THEY arrive with the first snows of winter,
And gather at the mouth of the Tyne.
Their wings are white like the Arctic ice,
And voices like a fine red wine.
Their hair has the colour of Northern Lights,
While their eyes are deep iceberg blue.
They fly and ride on Neptune’s cream steeds,
As far as the Tees and Seaton Carew.
They race over the bay of Hartlepool,
In a frenzy of foaming white waves.
Blending their voices with moorland winds,
Mixed in with echoes from undersea caves.
The light on the Heugh beams a welcome,
Then speeds them on their way.
Racing north to the mouth of the river Wear,
Past Morpeth and round Wansbeck Bay.
Then the Northern Lights start to beckon,
Calling the angels back to their home.
Leaving our seas just a little bit darker,
And our waves with a little less foam.