Middlesbrough

Middlesbrough, where the Tees rolls slow,
Its iron lungs once breathed the world’s bright glow—
From blast furnaces’ sooty hymn,
To bridges that sigh above the whim.

The Transporter stands, a steel‑grey ark,
Carrying footsteps from dusk till dark,
While Riverside’s murmur tells of ships
That loaded dreams on timbered slips.

Now cafés bloom where smokestacks once coughed,
Art galleries where coal dust loughed,
And Boro’s roar, a loyal chant,
Echoes past Victoria’s grant.

In Tees Valley’s green‑tinged hue,
Past and present shake hands—
A town reborn, yet firmly true,
To the spirit that the river knew.