Waters edge

A visual reminder of the river pageant that didn't pass you by.
The Waters Edge.
There are lots of things in life with a start and an end.
That pass through existence with curves and with bends.
But none can compare with the flow of the river along the lea.

Of initial beginings and final conclusions.
That are spawned as streams in states of confusions.
Winding their way down through the hills and down to the sea

A life that starts in fields on hills and upland moors.
Constantly fed by dew drops on grass to rain off doors.
Along furrows in fields,down gutters and drain

Little trails in meadows and brooks in the dales.
To expanses of water meandering the vales.
A simple drop that unites under the description of rain

Growing and flowing down hill they wind, taper and grow.
Cutting its way through meadows with banks of hedgerow.
Tearing and eroding in a trail of strife

Going from bubbling brook through phases of mood.
Along the plains in meadows for the artist to brood.
A medium of inspiration, a medium of life

Cascading over stones and dropping off weirs.
Lapping the banks, jettys and piers.
Whose source is a song of bubbling and gurgling

Fed on a defined course by streams and tributaries.
Until it flows and mingles with seas of unmarked boundaries.
Flowing slowly with purpose and surface rippling.

Fresh water, trickling its way down hill.
A flow relentlessly eroding the workings of the mill.
Its power caged by some but not many


An anatomy of channels, pastures and flood plains.
Upstreams of catchments, wetlands that take the rains.
A current whose direction of flow is uncanny

An enigma with an end to cross with one hop.
A spot you can leap to one end you cannot.
To depths and widths that are traversed in vain

Passing over gravel beds, layers of mud and silt.
To beneath the bows of willow and their limbs which wilt.
Flowing with the incline along the alluvial plain