The River

The river runs away
quicksilver over polished green;
hiccupping, twisting, splashing banks and bushes.
Swirling eddies, slowing to pools
sheltering and nurturing roach and dace
harbouring weed to provide cover;
murk to confuse pike.

The shepherd stares as his flock graze,
eyes glazed as grass is cudded.
His crook, a symptom of his age,
a seldom used appendage.

Ignoring all, downstream the water browns,
entertains the underside of branches;
seldom welcomes the sky.
Gaining speed through narrows,
dashing past anglers and twitchers,
it reaches the widening estuary,
gives up its innocence to the sea;
a place for ships and commerce.