I've taken many routes to home And this one isn't short. How often have I crossed that bridge Without a care or thought? I crossed again the other day, And realised with a shiver, It's not the bridge that's calling me; It's actually the river. It's from that vantage point above The river yields its gifts. The undulating wafting weed Attracts the agile Swifts. They skim the waters, clear and fresh, Catching rising mayfly, As fisherman tilt by the edge Casting out their dryfly. It dances coyly on the course Attractive to it's mark, Which bursts up through the crystal flow, And leaps in rainbow arc. The river deepens by the weir, That stalls the winter floods. The pool is brown with cloudy silt Overlooked by sparse woods. That's why I take the route that leads Me past the dark weir pool: I love the roiling river flow That sparkles like a jewel.
Lord Byron, English poet and peer, died today in 1824.
Charles Darwin, English naturalist, geologist and biologist, died today in 1882.
Daphne du Maurier, English author and playwright, died today in 1989.