Starting as a trickle high in the hills,
Formed by rain drops falling on fields.
Some are clear others bracken brown,
Caused by the minerals deep beneath the ground.
Gently gathering speed an audible sound,
Omits as a babble, tumbling down.
Dislodging mud, clearing its way,
I’m in a hurry, it appears to say.
Muddy now as it slows down,
Into a cauldron spinning around and around.
Song birds dipping their beaks and wings,
Carefully, so as not to fall in.
A branch from a tree snaps and breaks free,
Disturbingly: causing all on the bank to flee.
A weir ahead, cascading water flowing pure white,
Plunging down head long with all its might.
Now a stream no longer still, in its pathway a Paper Mill.
Thundering under the old stone bridge,
Passing pretty cottages, and folk in the street.
With a burst: into Bow Creek.
Tides high other times low: still a lot further to go.
Following your voluptuous bends, now approaching the end.
Entering a river flowing fast like a dart,
It’s destination the majestic River Dart.
I like the way it makes one want to experience the poem and the places…
The imagination matches that of the picture. Beautifully written.