A poem called The River

Tired and brown the river winds down

Through mudflats and derelict houses.

Its steady stream gazed upon by lovers,

Thieves, and untainted children.

Its water courses through cities and towns

And abandoned waterways. Sounds of

Modern distractions held back by

Untamed brambles and gnarled branches.

The river reflects hands held to faces

And absorbs the tears of young men.

Sometimes the shadows of flies twirl

Unpredictably: as is the nature of things.

The river runs on for miles and miles

Oblivious to its surroundings. All are welcome

To gaze upon its hypnotic surface, and try

To fix an eye upon its movement.

But the river moves on from mountain to sea,

And it has no story to tell.

Poetry and Blogging
A River Poem

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