The River Poem by Peter Swan

tired and brown the river winds down
through mudflats and derelict houses
its steady stream gazed upon
by lovers and thief’s
and uncontaminated children
its water courses through cities and towns
and abandoned waterways
sounds of modern distractions
held back by untamed brambles
these ugly banks hate clean living rooms
and tidy shelves.
the river reflects hands held to faces
and absorbs tears of young men
returning from Afghanistan
sometimes the shadows of flies
twirl unpredictably
as is the nature of things.
The river runs for miles and miles
And passes no judgement
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.