I also paused by the weir and salmon ladder - this stretch of the Yarrow is just begging for a dipper:
underneath the spreading beech,
where the weir horseshoes to a pool,
then tumbles over rocks where the mill-race
joins the stream, is where
I always thought we would build
a seat, where we could wait
until the dipper came, and watch
it dart, without hesitation,
into the tingling flow,
against the water’s push.
but we lingered
too long, never built
the seat, never waded in.
The dipper flew off long ago,
and though I often pass this way,
on the bank,
the dipper never comes this way again.