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South Bank Centre
Nestled among the shining peaks
of flashing glass and girded steel,
gilded mansions enjoyed by sheiks;
who queue for nearby Ferris wheel;
near Parliament’s Gothic seat,
Shakespeare’s Elizabethan Globe,
It sits, grey, brutal, pure concrete
shameless without a cladded robe.
It’s naked beauty clads itself
around creativeness within.
I am it shouts, I am myself
without a falsifying skin.
With jutting angles, edges hard,
it’s beauty is more honest than
the Pickle, Telephone, or Shard
I will forever be a fan.
Copyright ©
Terry Miller
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