I can sing of a river, echoing its ceaseless flow,

The sound as it gurgles round rocks

Then rushes through occasional locks

By flowered meadows where rushes grow.

I can write of a river with ever flowing words,

Tell how dappled evening light shines

As burnished gold from distant mines,

Use lurid rhymes to paint those water birds.

But if you have never seen that glory,

Not heard the rush of water on stone.

Nor seen a Kingfisher dive from the sky.

None of this will paint the full story

That is beyond words and music alone.

Sit quiet with a river, then you'll know why.