Voice of the Trent

I'm straight-jacketed, it's true

The city's litter my medication

The disused factories loom as in nightmares

And small boys beat me with their sticks

Heavy horses used to pull freight right through me

Coughing children ran alongside with dirty faces

Fathers stoked fuel into the narrow boat burners

And mothers raised families in tiny cabins

Now blue plastic bags float in my water

The Trent pulls the garbage out to sea

Model villages now appear on the towpath

Professionals raise small dogs in tiny apartments

Cradled by lush river banks

I am tickled by swans’ toes

I slap the Nottingham Princess on her behind

And she rocks nervously

Sending hiccup ripples to the shore

Stirring my belly of smooth mud and silt