The Glosa Brook

By thirty hills I hurry down,
Or slip between the ridges,
By twenty thorpes, a little town,
And half a hundred bridges.
— The Brook by Lord Alfred Tennyson

I stream gleaming sparkling in the sun
Gurgling with bubbles I slowly meander
My way through thick dark forests
Catching a pebble or two along the way
Carrying it beyond to another place
To chat with before sundown
I relax listening to the birds
Hearing their sweet songs as I pass on my way
I weave in and out around town
By thirty hills I hurry down,

Reach the bottom in roaring current
Only in another mile abate to almost stillness
I continue my journey onward to the end
Until then a fork in the path
Which way will I go from here?
Take the right to where I slip under bridge
Wide and wooden with planks as old as time
I bid adieu, a slowly plod is my pace
I continue to weave in and out along the fringes
Or slip between the ridges,

Down I go; I can wander far
I change my course slowly in time
Slight deviant I change my flow
Can see new locations from different angle
I continue my journey to far off lands
I make great progress to go around
A bend with trees that’s up ahead
I stream myself forward
To will make a call down
By twenty thorpes, a little town,

Quiet it lies as I go by
Town sleeps before the dawn breaks
I pass in silence to finish my journey
To great ocean that lies beyond
But before I get there I will see
Wide hilly fields and high ridges
Down and around I go on
Pick a few pebble friends as I go
They move along with to see more ridges
And half a hundred bridges.

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