The river that prompted the poem below was the Arenal in central Spain. It’s much smaller concern than either the Thames or the Severn, but not without its own character and appeal, although the old photos I’ve found fail to do it justice.
The river glosses over rocks, its tirade unpaused
by the heckle of sediment or igneous intrusions:
it has known the bulked discourse of granite
for centuries. Heedless, it upbraids the stagnant world.
The river dallies
to deliberate each root
and trailing reed, unravelling
their knotted messages like strings.
Now, it finds time to discuss
small nicks and crevices,
and whisper serendipities
to white-tuckered dippers