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.