Tower and Town, April 2016

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Tennyson's The Brook

The Victorian poet, Alfred Lord Tennyson, was a frequent visitor to Marlborough College due to his friendship with headmaster George Bradley. He sent his son Hallam to the school. Tennyson is thought to have spent many an hour composing his poetry in the beautiful surroundings of the Kennet, including his long poem ‘The Brook’.

My feet sink into the saturated mud as I near the water’s edge. I am greeted by the familiar sight of the river that I know so well. Its glistening, clear water tumbles over the chalky bed; cool and refreshing in contrast to the sun that beats down on me so strongly. Transfixed by the sight in front of me I am filled with a deep sense of awe. My mind idly drifts up the river to its joyous birth; it bubbles from the ground before it chatters down a valley, growing in strength when the crystal water tumbles over itself down the hills. It winds and winds through little ridges then bursts into deep green pools fringed with willows that trail their delicate leaves in the rushing water.

It babbles on past the mills and bridges of this little town - ignoring the clatter of hooves and carriages on the Bath Road. My feet on the river bank are insignificant in comparison to the wonders of its great journey. It will meander onwards until it meets the mighty Thames and is swept up in the current. Venturing on, finally it will never rest as part of the colossal ocean. On its travels it will see busy London, and carry river barges on its surface.

My thoughts linger on this before I am shaken from my daze at the sound of some schoolboys shouting light heartedly from behind Bradley’s house; perhaps it is Hallam and his friends. I reach for the battered leather bound book that I write my poems in. Sitting down on the damp grass I begin to write. The words flow down my arm, to my hand, through the thick black ink and onto the paper. My usually jerky and inelegant handwriting strangely looks as sinuous and smooth as the river I am describing. The poem goes on and on, just like the timeless River Kennet in front of me. When I reach the end my fountain pen runs dry, mirroring my thoughts, and I know it is complete. Above it in the space I left for the title I scrawl ‘The Brook’.

Looking up I see that it is beginning to get damp, I must have been out for hours. Only now do I feel the cold of the damp grass beneath me. I shake my head, as if trying to jolt myself back into existence, gingerly stand up and make my way back to the Master’s house. Bradley must be wondering where I am.

Violet Elworthy