Mimram Poem by Richard Theze

From its rising
At Whitwell,
A spring,
It flourishes,
Flowing, for always
Through my childhood,
Washing over Wellingtons,
Soaking small,
Short-clad boys,
With stocking nets,
Stood, mid-stream,
Catching sticklebacks.
Lazily winding,
Drifting,
Amidst unspoiled countryside,
Traversed by the viaduct
At Digswell,
Between muddy banks,
Grasses, nettles, docks,
Occasional Hawthorns,
Reflecting warm summer days,
Filled with reason.
We never tired of it,
My brothers and I,
Lunches,
Considerately packed
With Mum’s sandwiches,
Old jam jars,
Tied carelessly
With Dad’s string.
The Mimram,
At times shallow,
Rushing, tripping,
Falling over stones,
Then slowing,
Dragging, deep, dark,
Sluggish,
Reaching confluence,
Finally,
With the Lea,
Near Hertford.