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The River Leen

 
I sometimes walk down by the side of the river,
Which meanders through the town where I was born,
It is a river with a very proud history,
But nowadays it looks forgotten and forlorn.
 
The river originates in the grounds of the Newstead Abbey,
At the lake where the poet Lord Byron often went,
From there it flows through several villages and townships,
Until it finally empties itself into the River Trent.
 
The river is part of our great heritage,
In past days it has served our township well,
In its journey it must have seen so many changes,
 If it could speak it would have so much to tell.
 
It provided the power to drive several mills,
In which many local people were employed,
But all this has now been confined to history,
And most of the mills have been destroyed.
 
At most times the river flows by unnoticed,
But sometimes it puts on a bit of a show,
At times when the snow falls have been heavy,
The melting snows have caused it to overflow.
 
Some of the nearby land has been flooded,
Streets and houses in some places have been submerged,
The water on the Main Street was too deep to traverse,
That’s when the rowing boats suddenly emerged.
 
The serious flooding took place in the winter of  ’47,
The engineers from the Council were instructed
 That any further flooding should be prevented,
So the flood prevention scheme was constructed.
 
The river was also a place of entertainment,
Where children would fish or paddle for an hour or two,
Children are rarely seen down there today,
Perhaps they have got more interesting things to do.
 
The River Leen still flows through the town centre,
But few people seem to know that it is there,
Maybe it’s because they are too busy to remember,
Or, perhaps it’s because they don’t really care.
 
As I walk down by the riverside,
Many things of interest catch my eye,
But my mind goes back to contemplate its history,
As I watch the waters of the river flowing by.
 
Ron Martin

The Steam engine

I remember the Steam engine

Thrashing out the wheat,

steamroller working

Laying out our street.

The Steam Trains,

Bellowing out their smoke.

Watching from the bridge,

Trains passing made me choke.

Steam boats on the river,

Chugging up and down,

Children smiling faces,

As they raced around.

Days spent by the embankment,

Paddling in the pool,

Children eating ice cream

Trying to keep them cool.

Trams clanking too and fro

Memories from the past

All these things I remember,

The years have gone so fast

Memories of Nottingham

Flowers that bloom in May

Memories I will treasure

Until my dying day

By Malcolm Bradshaw

9th Competition

O AUTUMN ANALYSIS – Your Favourite poem

I
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.

II
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep,
Drows’d with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

III
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,–
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

By John keats
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