The River Somme.
Is it in Kent? Somebody said?
No, it’s in France, its full of the dead.
Is it up north, or down in the south?
No, It’s a river, its wide in the mouth.
Is it quite young, can it grow old?
No, it’s fast flowing, its dashing and bold.
Is it blue water, does it turn white?
No, Its seen battle, its darker than night.
Is it meandering, maybe runs straight?
No, it’s in conflict, its war was called Great.
Is it through low land, flat on both sides?
No, it’s where men died, its secret it hides.
Is it still mentioned, talked of today?
No, its all over, its memories are grey.
Is it guide books, wrote down in French?
No, it’s broke both banks, it’s flooded the trench.
Is it for your eyes, a must to be seen?
No, it’s horrendous, it’s no soldiers dream.
Is it malignant, will it catch on?
No, it’s benign, it’s the Somme.
Courtesy of Volunteer RB.
Written in an English prison cell.