“THE MOSS”
We travel far and wide across the countryside,
Strolling thro’ historic villages and quiet country parks.
Wander by rivers fast flowing and wide
And yet I will say – the river Moss is my pride.
It meanders down from Birley Hay –
A pretty place, where black swans glide –
Thro’ Ridgeway to fond it wanders its way,
Gurgling and dancing through shadow and light.
Then on over the “Lion” such a gentle fall,
And winding past the “Monkey” where children play.
Dancing and splashing to the blackbird’s call,
Twisting and turning till the white bridge bids it stay.
Slowly testing, for all to lean and gaze,
At bull fish and minnows in still waters below.
Stretching steeply, warm in the hot suns haze,
Then shaking itself for the journey to follow.
Gliding thro’ trees where once was lake,
Greeting celandine, crowfoot and marsh marigold.
Leaves from the trees floating like boats
Lingering and hovering the fall it must take.
Roaring and grumbling straight into the drop.
Frothing, tumbling, trembling, a lot.
Then quietly wending its way.
Through Bluebell Wood, where rabbits do play.
Shouting to the wooden bridge, high above.
‘Nay I can’t stay, I would if ‘I could!’
On thro’ the meadows thick with milkmaids,
Buttercups and daisies a carpet have laid.
Under the bridge in Lovers Walk,
Chuckling out softly at secrets heard.
Gaining speed now approaching the Mill,
Where in years past it worked so hard.
Gurgling yet towards the church steps,
Thro’ rushes and wild garlic growing below,
Lazily watching cows chewing their cud.
Nothing can stay it as it smoothly flows.
Not even the road, under which it hides
To appear again on the other side.
By Pipworth Lane towards the meadows,
Leaving a trail for us to follow
E’et it’s swallowed up by the “River Rother”.
EDITH BRUNT
