This river was wild once,
a child of the moors,
a free spirit, its channel
a home, not a prison.

When humans came here
they feared its capriciousness
tamed it with weirs
constrained it in stone.

They gave it a name
redolent of meek domesticity.
Subdued, foamed and rainbowed
with chemicals, it sang to their tune.

But listen …
in tree-hidden alcoves
the natives are plotting. Bold saplings
stride down to the river bank.

Up on the hillside the birches are marching
through recaptured fields;
in slow motion explosions
even the soil is bursting through walls.

The water is quiet
but do not be fooled
This river was wild once.
It will be so again.