Thames Estuary, birth canal,
where ideas and influences charge,
a confluent rush to uterine docks in the capital,
once birthing Empire.
Adolescent of annex now spent,
The mind is more mature, yet,
The body-politic, callow, sputters aimless,
Devouring proletarian flame formed of tallow.
Body's intransigence yields to mind's acceptance,
An understanding of how the constant faunal gush of centuries,
A lunatic convergence of cultures and ideas on a global scale, plants a seed.
A seed in a locale the "leaders" would have us believe barren,
Instead we stand upon unencumbered, fecund meadows,
ripe with dormant growth, swelling ideas, art and creation.
Creativity is the hand slapping a drum beat on the soul,
We dance to the resonance, across the estuary hands lie amid those seeds.
They are grown from Grain to Gravesend,
Ceaseless bloom of vision,
Melded into the river's crucible,
Melded to the motion of the estuary.
© Brad James, 2014.