Yesterday's reflections on the Thames

A light blinked in a float of litter;
"It's the top of Canary Wharf!" said Mary.
"That's about right," replied her friend,
who didn't like tower blocks.
"I'm gonna chuck this in with all the other rubbish."
she said, clutching another rejection letter, letting it drop.
The tower's tiny rippled image broke, the light disappeared,
As a boat's wake took her paper away.

Down in the stones and the sludge at the side
a man did the river equivalent of beachcombing.
Puffing a roll up, bent over and busy, coughing,
his coat the colour of the mud, hopes lower than the tide,
he sifted the flotsam which had ceased to float.
"No rubbish in a recession," he muttered, then complained,
"Nobody throws much away these days."
He flicked his fag in the water as if to demonstrate.

A fight brewed outside the National Film Theatre;
"I'm fed up with these endless ancient flicks," said Eric.
"That's right, give up," shouted his girlfriend
Who avoided Hollywood blockbusters.
"I can't watch any more of this rubbish,"
He said, screwing up his ticket, throwing it.
The ticket's flight was taken by the wind, it disappeared,
As her South Bank anger carried the woman away.

Up in an office on the opposite side
a prevalent MP practised his speechmaking.
Puffing himself up, straight and weighty, breathing deep,
his voice richer than blood, ambitions higher than his pride,
he sampled a phrase which seemed to lose meaning;
"No recovery without pain," he asserted, then explained,
"Nobody gives much away these days."
He risked a smile at the mirror as if to illustrate.

The night cloaked an embankment encounter;
"Behind Big Ben tomorrow at ten," said Ted.
"All right, I'll be there," confirmed his customer
Who concealed a powdery block;
"You know we need this rubbish,"
she said, mustering up saliva, spitting it out.
The spittle cleared the river wall then sprayed and disappeared
as the girl's habit hurried the package away.