I always look out for dippers and kingfishers when I walk along the Yarrow. I've seen them there - but not for a long time. Sad.
Anyway here is a poem which I recently had published in REACH. And yes, it's about more than dippers...
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 hoped that 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,
pause on the bank,
the dipper never comes this way again.