Gateshead

Gateshead

By the lazy bend of the Tyne’s dark water,
Where the bridges hum like low‑tuned violins,
The town awakens beneath a slate‑grey sky,
Its chimneys puffing soft, steady sighs.

The Angel watches, steel‑winged and serene,
A modern sentinel over terraced streets,
Where market stalls spill the scent of fresh‑baked loaves,
And children’s laughter echoes off the Quayside’s stone.

In the Sage, music curls like incense,
Notes spiralling up to the vaulted roof,
While the Baltic’s glass façade reflects
The river’s shifting moods—now steel, now rose.

Evening drapes a velvet cloak over the High Level,
Lamps flicker like fireflies on the water’s skin,
And the old railway arches whisper tales
Of coal, of labour, of dreams that rode the rails.

Gateshead, you are a blend of grit and grace,
A northern heart that beats steady and true,
Where industry meets art beneath the same sky,
And every cobbled lane sings a quiet, proud refrain.