This river is the founding stream,
which carved out our distinctive town,
part of an independence dream,
stained its namesake, earthy brown.

It winds now, as it wound then,
from the pond on Jamaica Plain
to the lowlands of the Boston fen,
then somewhere out to sea again.

The ancient banks are swathed in green,
here birds still trill their joyful sound,
all part of Olmstead's verdant screen,
hard by the trolley, inward bound.

Our river moves at glacial pace,
much like a sheet of alpine ice.
It seems content to let us race,
while caught in its aquatic vise.

It must seem modest to those who've gone
crashing along a rafting course,
or visited the Amazon,
or sailed the seas, "tempest-tossed."

But still we love this humble stream,
much as one loves a wild rose.
We reaffirm the founders' dream,
and--most respectfully--hold our nose.

August, 1992

All written material © Bill Schechter, 2016
Contact Bill Schechter