South Bank Present Imperfect

Limpopo-coloured Thames
Reflects the sky and is blue
There's a beach around the reach
Where I'm sure it is true
That gentle waves surge and die
And one can swim and drink gin
In a tropic approximation
Of the dream I am in

In a more prosaic scene
Here where pigeons fly
Greasy, great and grey-green
Reality passes bye
And the litter misbehaves
Where muddy water licks
And the pebbles in the waves
Are remnants of ancient bricks

Misplaced Elysium!
Now pigeons are closing in
To intercept a fallen crumb
On its way to the litter bin
Across the face of the sun
Shadows of airliners pass
Amid dilapidation
Oh for a rosy glass