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The River

The River

Lydia Jones


The woodland river on an autumn morning,

A clear, bright stream tumbling down rocks,

Splitting into small silver waterfalls,

Glistening like chipped quartz.

It trills in the stones and trembles the reeds,

Trickling, spluttering, splashing over pebbles,

And gushing through the trees.


A canopy of green arcs above,

Kaleidoscoping the light into jewelled shards

Flickering over the surface of the river.

I run a stick through the water as I walk

Making it spin and dance and whirl

Radiating small ripples that sparkle like stars.


I come back in the winter

Walking briskly into the small glade

The ground is coated in snow, stained with mud

And fallen trees sprawl across the river’s side

A thick fog lingers in the cold air;

Above me thin dead fingers cut the shade.


I find a motionless dead river

Frozen still, like a slab of slate,

Arrested in the midst of life

Until the spring when it will re-awake.




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