Tra'˜verse'ing our region
The wind in the trees on the hillside,
Kissing and caressing their leaves;
Twisting and turning their branches,
Conducting a symphonic breeze.
Water trickling down green rocky ledges,
Merging to make the noisy high falls.
Then racing on into lakes and wide rivers,
Under fine bridges and past harbour walls.
The early dawn chorus of English song birds,
Starting before the sun starts to rise.
First a chirp, a whistle, then a song burst,
Then a crescendo of calls hit the skies.
Thundering waves on gold sandy beaches,
The swish of pebbles and empty sea shells.
The cries of sea birds hungrily feeding,
The warnings of danger by Trinity bells.
The sounds of music from military bands,
And especially the sound of their bugles,
Sending out calls from high on a hill,
Or the high tower of Durham Cathedral.
The skirl of the pipes on a distant hill,
And the cuckoo’s call in the springtime.
The cry of a child as it enters this world,
And the voice of the wife calling teatime.