The river’s a wanderer, a nomad, a tramp.
He doesn't choose any one place to set up his camp.
The river’s a winder, through valley and hill.
He twists and he turns, he just cannot be still.
The river’s a hoarder and he buries down deep.
Those little treasures that he wants to keep.
The river’s a baby, he gurgles and hums
And sounds like he’s happily sucking his thumbs.
The river’s a singer, as he dances along
The countryside echoes the notes of his song.
The river’s a monster, hungry and vexed
He’s gobbled up trees and he’ll swallow you next.
Comments about this poem (The River by Luke Rylands )
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