Byker.

Here, talk is cheap and conversation is priceless.
Chats in slippers and a night dress.
Saying ‘It's nice this’ and ‘We needed this’
As the weather shifts
From summer to Autumn,
The sky fallen with rain and colour.

Here, you play with your neighbours like Brothers,
Football in the back streets,
Speedy feet kick between homes.

Here, every person is known.
Shout across yards instead of picking up phones
Because the bill is too high,
So just come on by or sit outside.
We'll drink what we got
From the corner shop
And rest on a bench or wall
Or stand tower block tall,
Proud to be loud and Geordie.
We’re the ones who can always afford the
Kindness of community,
a low cost which will never be lost with rising inflation.
There is power in our conversation,
After all, while standing at doors
In slippers and a night dress,
Here, talk is cheap and conversation is priceless.

Boating Lake.

As dawn breaks
Over the boating lake
We see the ripple effect,
How one small move connects
To another, making waves.
Octaves
Rise as blackbirds sing
From oak and willow trees to bring
The new day in.

It's the little things
That cause the greatest joy,
A drop in a bucket moves all its contents
And I am content
To walk here, to have fun
Rowing boats under sun
And then watching bats under moonlight.
What a sight, in flight
With a backdrop of colour on bonfire night
As the sky explodes.
What a show.
Watch the ripples grow.

Library

Have you ever gotten lost
Without moving from your chair?
Do you ever find that you're somewhere
That you're not
Because you've got
Your eyes on a page?
No matter your age,
There's are places to visit,
If you decide,
Because this building
Is bigger on the inside.

It hides
Histories,
Universes,
Mysteries,
All of which it holds
In the folds of paper.
Binge all at once,
Or save it for later
With a bookmark or dog ear.
You can be there while you're here.
Sit and breathe
With a cup of tea.
You're invited
To be delighted
And devastated
By worlds humans created,
Minds generated.

This building is not a story keeper,
And it's more than a collector,
This place is a connector.
A story sharer,
A carer
For those who dare
To dive in from their chair
and be lost.

Story Tyne, Wear and Tees

Story Tyne, Tees and Wear,
Read the tales of all that happens here:
Generations of innovation,
From mechanics to the culinary, multi-disciplinary.

Music on demand, command
The air from band stands
As calloused hands play.

Dinner is on the way,
From mustard that Durham made
With a hand mixed lemonade.
Then a lemon top to cool off,
A Teesside classic, fantastic.
Then pastry so flaky
From Tyneside kitchens
on a mission to feed all of Newcastle,
not a hassle, not a trial.
Eat a stottie with a smile,
And Pease Pud, if you please.

Read how the keys
To the world were forged
By Hackworth and George.
Trails on the rails,
Crossing boundaries from these
Cod heads, Mackems and Geordies
Of the Tyne, Wear and Tees.

No, we will not disappear
In the shrug of: ‘Nothing happened here’
Because we do.
A murmuration of Starlings singing through
Closing mines and factories,
Singing through Category D.

No, we share a bit of pit village wit and grin.
This is who we are, outside and in.

Wellies

These boots were made for wanging.

When we're hanging out with family and friends

It's time to send those boots flying.

It's worth trying, I promise it's fun, it beats watching telly.

Your Grandad shouts, deep from his belly,

‘Give it some wellie!’

And you chuck it into the muck,

As it flies down field you shield

yourself from the mud spray.

These boots were made to play.

So, what do you say?

These boots were made for splashing,

For clashing with shallow pools collected in the cracks, slab to slab.

So grab a pair and huddle by the puddle.

Be four years old again, remember when

Smiles were warm and formed as the sky splits

Into a light spit or a down pour.

We saw more than rain torrential, we saw potential.

So splash and wang and let it land with a bang, let it soar!

It's what these boots were made for.

Lindisfarne.

Hear the old language, island mother tongue,
From when this place was young.
From back when those,
15 centuries ago,
Came through pilgrims' path
Over the mud flats.
The name they selected
Was closely connected
To how their journey unraveled.
Lindisfarne: those who traveled by water

The castle stands,
Surrounded by grasslands,
Up the hill, still against the chaos
Of sea twixt sky
Where Puffins fly under
And Gannets swim above
With Oyster Catchers and Rock Doves.

The old language,
The call of the birds.
Holy Island,
Healing words.

TunedIn!

It happens here, at TunedIn!
Let the magic begin
With coastal wind,
Kites fly, catching the highs
To the skies
And above the tides
Where two blues intertwine, collide

Listen to the tales
Regaled
On a night of poetic verse,
those same skies now burst
With lights of the Milky Way
Which reflect around the bay
And in the lake
Above and below
It glows.

World In Hand

We hand the future
To the ‘Young Kids’
Team at the pub quiz
drinking Bucks Fizz,
because it's theirs, hers, his.
It is.
This earth, this planet.

We didn't plan it,
This eventuality,
This reality,
The way that things are.

But, sitting among the stars,
Spinning at an impossible pace,
We place
All that is to come
Into the palms of the young.

We trust.
We must.

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