The river Medway and their majestic hosts (a poem) 01092015

This concerns the contrast between the magic of the swans, their beauty and grace, within a historical context, and the fishermans hook caught in the face of the swans beak, left alone by his peers.

The river Medway is calm, as I slowly walk along, free thinking as I look a head and see the beauty within the river Medway.

I see the boats stroking their tummies underneath the river, where fierce battles were fought along upnor way, where injuries that won’t heal kissing death with a gallant smile.

The majestic swans potter along in their gaggle of small graceful groups, there is a defined leader with his head held high, matching the sky as they follow me as I go by.

A little trickle of sound as they go by, a black swan standing out, with his difference in colour noted out loud proud. The swirl of the river from a big boat, they enjoy a bumpy ride from the rip tide.

The tall ship sails on towards queen borough and beyond.

The swans leave behind a poor injured young fello, trapped with a hook stuck in his beak with no hope of an escape. The fishermans hook battering his might as his wings are red raw from the hopeless fight.

His bent beak, bent there is no repair I try to help in his dispeare but cannot reach within his length.

The swan slowly taken, a dinner for a fox or cat, they won’t go hungry tonight. As his life is slowly lost, he sees his friends in the distance, as they gracefully move up river to find food they are in a good mood merged all into one now a speckled colour of one, as they disappeared into the mist, his body is now food for another, and they are all gone.

Copy written by Sam rapp the dyslexic poet