The Bonnechère

A river snakes through sylvan lands

with quiet ebb and flow;

the birches greet with silver palms

in evanescent glow;

and slipping on past concrete piers

where children’s stones are cast,

the river sings of dreams and things,

fond wishes from the past.

A river snakes through sylvan lands,

past rich and fertile soil,

tilled by firm and tawny hands,

nails blackened from the toil.

Giant alders both frame the land

and shelter river’s lee,

and still the water moves along

with strength to carry me.

A river snakes through sylvan lands,

through boroughs and through town,

then rushing brazen through the dam,

its course comes crashing down.

Over rocks and rapids poured,

strength begins to wane,

till quiet and obsequious,

the river slows again.

A river snakes through sylvan lands

with steady quiet lilt,

quick to catch the private thoughts

on which our dreams are built.

I was the child upon the bridge

with little stones to cast.

I love the secret waters deep

that flow into my past.

Sepia toned pictures were taken by my mum, others by me a long time ago.