At my beginning unnoticed,
Disturbing a few blades of grass.
At my departure miles wide,
Or so it seems to those who pass.
Older than any empire,
I’ve watched over cities and towns.
Crossed by legions, traversed by millions,
So often I’ve changed my bounds.
I am the setting for history,
For politics and power.
Painted and prosed by the famous,
Unfortunates dreaded my tower.
I’ve sucked down many to their deaths,
That was never my intention.
Gentle meadows are what I love,
Not man’s intervention.
The city turned me dark,
Hemmed me in with squalor and hate.
I’ve been loched, bombed and tunnelled,
Till my very bed vibrates.
My fortunes like tides fall and rise,
Stories captured for many to tell.
Painted by Turner, Canaletto,
Written by Dickens, Jerome and Wells.
I dream of a spring in the meadow,
And wonder am I still me,
As my banks sink and salt currents swirl
And I’m swallowed by The North Sea.