There to water the land it winds
the crops in golden fields wide.
To the sea its channels flow
now in summer with levels low
its banks are dry on either side
its lazy waters passing slow.
A meandering strip a route to find
no gentler sound that comes to mind
than waters 'babbling' on rocks below
Long its sweeping curves are deep
calm its surface waters held.
No trace of movement there I spied
no hurried dash to catch the tide
its flowing passion clearly quelled
In clouds the ubiquitous skimming midge
a morsel for many a fish to snatch.
A leap; a snap with teeth like knives
or grace and speed the swallow dives
its endless quest a meal to catch
The summer river has not the strength
nor waters deep the land to quench.
Like us we have no need to race
so will simply take a slower pace!
