brown Thames, choppy underneath the bridge (in faded red and rusted white) above the wide and sweeping bend (by London Eye) clouds rise, a mountain range but moving almost imperceptibly we turn, and out past Tower Bridge the sky is rippled solid grey (a siren scratches electronic fingernails down Blackfriars Road) the water doesn’t lap it slaps the pilings standing still in pairs, truncated now, the sad memorials of former and more elegantly decorative times
I wrote this after the first time I used the station.
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