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River Poetry (1986-87)

At the canal

The water is ebbing along.
Splash and ripple where the river hits the rocks,
We can hear the roar of the far off waterfall, which is broken by a loud
Plop! as the stone Annabel throws
Curves gracefully
And hits the water.
Antony's pencil drifts away
And as it comes to the current it swirls for a second -
Then is gone.
The reeds make the water ripple,
As they wave gracefully in the wind.

Up along the other side of the bank.
The water is deeper, murkier, the current stronger.
I throw a stick in and race after it, just in time to see it drift
Away into the current.
Some day I shall run away,
Down to the bank to see where the current takes its prisoners,
Of sticks and bits of weed.

But the water flows on and on,
The current grows stronger and stronger,
And breaks, with a loud cry.
It rushes down, roaring all the time, to flow the murky river-bank again.
And I wonder what it must be like to be a fish, falling, falling,
Down the waterfall.

Then we see a hollow tree,
Its inhabitants long since gone.
And as I stand staring at it I wonder,
What sort of animals once lived there.

River Poetry

Down by the Marshes

Down by the Marshes there were lots of reeds,
Lots of mud and lots of muck,
And lots of little weeds.
Lots of grime and lots of gunge
And lots of slush as well.
It really was the most horrible place
And William's boots sunk a foot down
Down into the Marshes.

 

The Weir

As water rushes down the Weir,
It gushes in a spout.
As water tumbles down the Weir,
It falls and splashes out.

River Poetry

The fisherman

As the fisherman sits on the river bank,
Quiet as Quiet can be.
As the fisherman sits near the river's bed,
Waiting patiently.
For a lingering fish.
And...A bite! A bite at last!
And he reels in the line
And...he throws it back in disgust
For it was only a piece of paper.

 

Down by the Bridge

Down by the bridge
I found a broken egg shell.
Down by the bridge
I threw it in the water.
Down by the bridge
It was so quiet and peaceful.

River Poetry

Untitled

Up in the hills and fields so gay,
Is where the woodland life does play.
But in the river, deep, deep, deep
Is where river life doth creep.

The day comes to an end
Woodland life runs away
To sleep, not to Play.
But in the river, deep, deep, deep
The river life are not asleep.

In the morn, the woodland life comes again,
To play
In the fields so gay.
But in the river, deep, deep, deep
The river life sleep.

River Poetry


Robin Tamblyn (author)