Summerlight flicks, the edges of London,
Sparks on glass-blades, city spires,
Smithereens of past, shards of future,
Gilt crust, glamourdusk , quick flash-fires.
Greenwich, we say. Thick in the waterbeds,
Maidenhair sinewaves, mechanized wash;
Old man river rolling shingle on a blue tongue,
Popping candy, lost slang, memories, tosh.
The pub we sit in, burnished planking,
Orchestrated mismatch, pristine scuff;
Raise a glass to owning it, scotch eggs a fiver,
Nowadays a feast is as good as enough.
Niggardly futons, in the flats of longago,
Fistholes in plaster, scrag-end of lust,
Bargain-bin fabric pinned against windows,
Rose light, clementines, fag ends, dust.