The Medway Poem by Philip Vincent Sanders

The river flowing slowly past
Boats scurrying here and there
Where to? …Why? and How?
With all their various wares

To France across the Channel
With sails all billowing round
Unlike the noisy steamers
They pass without a sound

The matelots shout their orders
As the big ships thunder by
Their funnels gushing steam and dirt
Never worrying why

The speedy motor boat roars on
Its brow awash with waves
The pilot standing lofty high
Above the watery grave