Whispers of a weary river

I walk lonely through Parramatta Park,

I hear the calming sounds of the river.

I follow the sound and see trees that are lined up

like the Terracotta Warriors,

And huge rocks that look like giants emerging

out of the damp ground.

I arrive at the small river, whose little waves roll

forward almost calling me in.

While sitting down at the riverbed,

I move my hand into the cooling and refreshing water.

The river speaks to me, whispering, “Help!”

I get startled and don’t say anything.

Finally, I say, “What do you need?”

The river's voice strikes back like thunder, saying,

“My waves have become toxic, and I am slowly

dying from rubbish. I fear that I am no longer a

beautiful river."