Through the clefted hillsides, runs a solitary stream;
Slaves throughout the Winter, carries trash and fish alike
Floundering in its torrent is the river-god - the pike.
Yet it idles off the summer in impenetrable dream
Rushing past the reeds, rippling the shade.
Chis'ling out a path through th' impervious terrain,
Scouring all its crevices, purging every boulder,
Flowing through the highest peaks, and shiv'ring on much colder
Searching for the sea, alas, in vain.
It laps against a white-washed house wherein a widow dwells,
It turns around a miller's wheel, so grinding down some grain
Then thunders down a ravine, by a quiet country lane.
The river passes near a church and hearkens to its wells
Rushing past the reeds, in a quiet country glade.
John Daly 3B
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