Boats on the river

On the winding riverbank the dawn unfurls,
A silver hush of mist that curls and curls,
The river’s breath in quiet blue,
And boats that glide, their hulls a subtle hue.

A barge, its keel a great, steady oak,
A punt with oars that slice the water’s cloak,
A dinghy, bright as springtime daisies, flits—
A lone little craft that climbs the wind’s soft wits.

The crews, their coats of navy dark and neat,
Speak in hushed tones of stir and route and fleet,
They bind the rope to rig, cast nets in time,
And guide the craft by map, by grit, by rhyme.

The Thames, it carries ancient echoes still,
From market drives to scholars’ quiet quill,
Each log and mast a story’s scribe,
In tides that lift the city’s hopes and stride.

So full the river with its gentle current,
With footsteps of the past that still are urgent,
When evening falls, the boats lie softly still—
A living page in cream‑coloured, quiet skil.