On the Isles of Dogs,

In the Cascades Bulding

Huge portholes

By way of windows

Through wich you could see the ships go by.

 

The Thames once bore that forest of masts

Driven by the tide, swaying in the wind.

With light touch, the skipers

Of the four-smasters

Avoided sanded banks

In the loops if river and sea

as far as Tower Bridge,

Last stop for these tall ships,

Where they moored, below the Tower.

 

Time passes, the wind blows,

This tryst with London

Will be the very last,

A work of art, since then erected,

Downstream from the city,

Bars the way to these tall masts

For ever.