THE RIVER

A trickle of water emerges from a small crack in the mountainside
Flows swiftly along a narrow valley,
Past craggy rocks eating the earth as it moves,
Its mouth widening, as it makes its way towards the sea.
Twisting and turning as it journeys on.
The spring, youthful but filled with power is clean and fresh,
Along the banks little, coloured Alpine flowers bloom,
As they absorb the fresh, clear water through their threadlike roots.

Journeying downwards, tumbling towards the sea, it changes.
Becoming murky, dark and dank.
The freshness now replaced by stagnant water
From the manure, seeping ceaselessly from nearby fields.

The river no longer youthful nor fresh.
Finds life a struggle, a chore, exhausted and tired
Like an old woman bent over it turns,
Slowly one way, then another.
Meandering, labouring and leaving oxbow lakes behind it,
A delta with soggy marshes and wild reeds,
Then vanishes into the vast ocean,
Its life diminished into eternity and oblivion.