by Constantine

The slow grey waters.||Wandering wistfully.
Past many shores.||Shimmering silently.
Ever renewing,||endless, enchanting.
Carving the landscape.||Cleaving the country.
Heading past harbours,||history making.

From the Cotswolds,||cold it flows frothing.
Under forty-five locks,||before the far sea
passing the pang,||poets it inspires
pressing past Henley,||where punters serenade
Windsor castle watches,||as it whips past Eton

Runnymede rushes past.||history rejoices.
Speeding past stains,||a smear on the landscape.
The Wey and the Bourne,||by Weybridge weld to it.
Now tides take their toll,||bathers beware.
Hampton court passes, ||Old home of Henry,

Kingston at long last,||looping into the city
The modern metropolis||Fifty Miles across
Town built on trade.||The river its blood
for two thousand years ||the Thames bought life.
Now poisoned polluted||But loved by the people.

A National symbol. ||England’s aged artery.
Keeping London alive,||and hope along with it.
And you here and now…||Yes you gentle reader.
Your majestic mind,||like to that mighty river.
fears, thoughts, fancies,||flotsam in the water

building up on the shores,||making banks of belief
becoming villages vital||of virgin personality
corrupting, conjoining||into mighty cities
but for all of its warmth,||wealth and wonder

you are not the city…
you are the river…

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