Muddy river, swiftly flowing,
with the tide, its volume growing,
Passing quickly toward the sea,
brown and laden, yet racing free.
Towers tall, interspersed and spare,
chimneys risen above the air,
Spires stretched among bleak-shrouded sky,
ugly and pale, afflict the eye.
This waning ghost of what had been
past history, both grand and grim,
Whose tales are sung in legend bold
with aging time, lost truths unfold.
Some patch of blossoms crowd her banks ,
where pilings gray form solid ranks,
One does not hear the rush of oars,
nor plays a child along her shores.
This river flows into the sea,
in vast attack by staunch army,
A noble force with wasted prime,
that suffered sad effects of time.
There heroes brave once paced the sod,
and glory old, her bridges trod,
Those golden days, now much forgot,
that hailed the truth of Camelot.
Claire V. Bogdanos 