On path of stone, high cobbles prim,
at least the few who middle lay;
unfractured by the ironed rim,
or horse, sure hoofed, that hauled the dray.
Still scarred into the steep descent,
red rust from wheels locked tight by force,
as drivers braked to hope prevent
a bitter spill into the course.
For here a bridge was slung and firmed,
a narrow deck of plank and chains,
where geldings, calm and repute earned,
would rear and fuss and shudder manes.
With clatter, whip and stumbling gait
each shaky crossing took its due.
The draymen, scathed if ever late,
delivered always gas-flat brew.
No other route or track would make
the crossing short, or trotting fast;
and so the bridge would daily take
two drays, then four, as one year passed.
For fifty years the stones held well,
that link across the Derwent's way;
then rain, as likely, heaven fell
and rose the river high that day.
There never was such flow, they tell,
that tore in torrent from Ryehill
The tide rose up to fight the swell
and flushed the Tyne to Rowland's Gill.
Some came to look, some passers by,
they stared to watch the water rise.
The bridge, its name was Butterfly,
was wrenched and torn in crushed demise.
What saddened some would others not
for all had diff'rent views on loss;
the bridge had gone, who cares a jot?
A new way would be found to cross.
The draymen would not lose their sleep,
they had their ale on brewer's side;
A longer trip, with nothing steep,
would please the horse and heal it's hide.
The farmer's lads would wait a while
if all it took was three hours more;
the beer would froth in fine ale style
and take a tempting time to pour.
The brewery, they never lose,
proclaimed a cost increase to those
who victualled south, and they must choose,
to pay up, put up or soon close.
In Nineteen-fifty came a plan
to break the Brewer's fiscal grip.
The locals turned out to a man
and some from Felling made the trip.
From pits and quarries hauled they stone
and built a higher, lofty ridge;
where once the Butterfly had flown
like an imago new.... a bridge.
The Butterfly still stands today,
rebuilt with steel and concrete piles.
No longer does the horse and dray
cross to save those once worth miles.
A footbridge now, but folk still go
and stroll to where a meadow lies;
they watch the Derwent rush below
and net bright coloured butterflies.
tectak
December floods, 2012
at least the few who middle lay;
unfractured by the ironed rim,
or horse, sure hoofed, that hauled the dray.
Still scarred into the steep descent,
red rust from wheels locked tight by force,
as drivers braked to hope prevent
a bitter spill into the course.
For here a bridge was slung and firmed,
a narrow deck of plank and chains,
where geldings, calm and repute earned,
would rear and fuss and shudder manes.
With clatter, whip and stumbling gait
each shaky crossing took its due.
The draymen, scathed if ever late,
delivered always gas-flat brew.
No other route or track would make
the crossing short, or trotting fast;
and so the bridge would daily take
two drays, then four, as one year passed.
For fifty years the stones held well,
that link across the Derwent's way;
then rain, as likely, heaven fell
and rose the river high that day.
There never was such flow, they tell,
that tore in torrent from Ryehill
The tide rose up to fight the swell
and flushed the Tyne to Rowland's Gill.
Some came to look, some passers by,
they stared to watch the water rise.
The bridge, its name was Butterfly,
was wrenched and torn in crushed demise.
What saddened some would others not
for all had diff'rent views on loss;
the bridge had gone, who cares a jot?
A new way would be found to cross.
The draymen would not lose their sleep,
they had their ale on brewer's side;
A longer trip, with nothing steep,
would please the horse and heal it's hide.
The farmer's lads would wait a while
if all it took was three hours more;
the beer would froth in fine ale style
and take a tempting time to pour.
The brewery, they never lose,
proclaimed a cost increase to those
who victualled south, and they must choose,
to pay up, put up or soon close.
In Nineteen-fifty came a plan
to break the Brewer's fiscal grip.
The locals turned out to a man
and some from Felling made the trip.
From pits and quarries hauled they stone
and built a higher, lofty ridge;
where once the Butterfly had flown
like an imago new.... a bridge.
The Butterfly still stands today,
rebuilt with steel and concrete piles.
No longer does the horse and dray
cross to save those once worth miles.
A footbridge now, but folk still go
and stroll to where a meadow lies;
they watch the Derwent rush below
and net bright coloured butterflies.
tectak
December floods, 2012
