It is not wise to lean your arms On the bird beshitten wooden rail From where we watch the river bed Couch the trickling Thames in yawns. A crocodile of launches slouches To Fulham FC dolefully Like pigeon-chested kids unwilling To take the tide this Saturday. From the window of a private gym Where first eight rowers go to die A pirouetting youth with ringlets Halts his weights and gazes down When a love bird in the blossom coos Above the plash of a sleek canoe. The orange lamps appear like ghosts To hum the paddler to his rest.