The turgid, cloud-like, liquid light
Spreads out amorphous fingers in a molten brew
Before the onset of another night
Wraps a cloak about the shapes of different hue.

River steamers pass, etched against the shore
Trailing effervescent gold dust in their wakes
And City workers over bridges pour,
Dark silhouettes, returning for their nightly breaks.

Eastwards the duller, prosaic view
Is lighted by a silvery range
Triangulating a Tower that grew
And has seen eight hundred years of change.

In aura of its own the Tower glows
from salvoes of shining shafts cast down
Through gaps in clouds above the river’s flow
Bestowing as of right a triumphant crown.

January 1998