A few years ago I found myself writing this poem about the river Severn or Sabrina in earlier records. It is a kind of full on erotic vision of my local river which I’m sure more people would admit to if we didn’t think we would be burned as witches or wizards.
Birth is the river.
Conception is the river.
Her sticky wet banks
seeded with moon pale elvers
surging in wriggling coital urge.
Sabrina orgasms with a rushing foamy bore.
The single minded wave
tears up and boils all
into Sabrina’s sexual frenzy.
Her waters throbbing
teeming with little fishes
oozing out in wild swirls across farmland and into our houses.
Infecting Gloucestershire’s population
with Sabrina’s springtide sex drive,
it drives the obliterating surrender of every animal to procreate.
For life’s call is absolutely naked
like flowers coming out.
Men and women step outdoors
To breath the air,
Oh god forget the reductions of staying inside and all that
Crap of earning a wage!
Sabrina’s horny riverside revels bid
me go down and down,
harmonising my loins with the ones I desire to fuck.
She moves silky and sucking
at the sunshine
towards Gloucester cathedral
that prick of spires
how it inspires
To consummate her watery passion
upon the pinnacles of stone.
Can you hear it?
as on the Mayday air
everything and even the priests
tremble with the erotic heat wave
of river meeting land.
A groan melts children’s ice-creams,
Parents spontaneously tumble into bushes,
Sabrina is x-rated and you cannot escape her wet curves.
Disclaimer: the river Severn does not take responsbility for what goes on in Treefellows mind, it is entirely to with the hills.