POEM FOR A SUNDAY
RICHARD Walsh was born near Leeds, but moved to the North East to study maths and geology at
The University of Durham, where he met, fell in love with and married his wife, Liz. Staying near
Durham, they brough up two sons before moving to Cowshill near the top end of Weardale about
fifteen years ago. There he fell in love again, with the place and its people. When he’s not working
as a Civil Engineer, he enjoys exploring the caves, rivers, streams, rock outcrops and moors of his
new home, and finds there a spirituality that complements the Christianity he expresses in the
Anglican communion of West Weardale and elsewhere.
A Psalm
The land is my shepherd, she guides me from source;
Through Newhouse green pastures, into Hams Pool;
Where my water lies still, limpid and cool;
Burnished and bronzed with peat from the moors.
Though enemies beset me, restrain me by force;
Bind me, contain me, subject me to rule;
Call me their servant, their slave and their tool.
The land feeds my flowing, holds me fast to my course
She leads me through wasteland that lies like a corpse
(Here slicks of pollution, industry’s fuel,
Spread on my surface, a cancerous jewel)
I pass through, still downwards to Sunderland’s Shores
Then He will embrace me, like a prodigal son.
When I join with the sea and all rivers are one.
