In the cradle of Penistone, a whisper it starts,
A trickle of silver, through valleys it charts.
Born from the springs where soft heathers do grow,
Our River Don sets course, slow and low.
Through Yorkshire it wanders, in shadows and light,
A mirror of starlight that dances each night.
It sings to the meadows and carves through the stone,
A journey of whispers where new dreams are sown.
It swells with the rain and shrinks in the drought,
A path ever-changing, a journey no doubt.
The old rowers remember the tales it has told,
Of summers and winters, as scullers grow old.
At times it runs wild, untamed, and so free,
A force of pure nature, its call to the sea.
Yet in quiet moments, it softens its song,
A melody gentle, where fine boats belong.
From hills through cities our river does go,
An endless journey, life’s ebb, and flow.
For each row a memory, with the Don, at the centre,
On the river of time, the broad smile of adventure!
Anon
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