Brook Street, Ilkley
The mighty river leads a life
So different to our own.
It beats a path through dale and town
On a bed that’s rough with stone.
It trickles down from haunts in hills;
It flows to meet the sea,
And leads an independent life
With little thought of me.
Its moods swing wildly day by day
And weather plays its part.
Streams that flow from heathered hills
Can stir its watery heart.
It flows one day with quietude
Along its pebbled bed.
Next day, when rain has beaten down,
It flows with speed instead.
It’s then its waters swirl and churn;
Its currents seek out prey –
And woe betide the foolish ones
Who in its path should stray.
But a river plays capricious games
And can show a cordial face.
Children paddling in the sun
Can enjoy its cool embrace.
Families picnic on its banks
And dogs wade in and swim
And, on warm summer evenings,
Watch the swallows dive and skim.
Ducks rear their young and children play.
The river sees them all
Whilst streaming on its seaward way
Through dale and urban sprawl.
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