Where Sulby River wreathes each silver coil
From the bare moorland to the northern sea,
A parable of life is told. It springs
From the fond earth, whose sun and rain kissed soil
Has brought it forth in glad nativity,
Where in the morning the sweet linnet sings;
The guardian hills direct its course, and foil
Attempts to wander, and each bordering tree
Shades the young stream. Growing in strength it brings
Power to the mills, and shares in human toil.
Then, glens of childhood past, through broader fields
It flows more slowly but with purpose sure,
Receiving tributes, stained now and impure,
Until its essence to the ocean yields.
Weekly Times 26.4.62