So brightly blisters the great regurgitating ribbon of the Thames.
Sculls skim through like springtime swallows.
Keels kiss tidal scum, lancing the stolen sun — boils
or bops to a stop, as in
The bee on wheels has laments on a stick
Wags weepy banners with gypsy ribbons …
The tiny wheeled bee has the sky on a stick
Idly waves as she buzzes through the afternoon
Kicking the tears around like bean tins.