One day I wrote her name
One day I wrote her name in trampled sand.
Waves rushed in and smoothed it away
like laundry irons scorching my hand.
I wrote again. Again the words fell prey
to water. There is nothing I can say
that could withstand the curve of water's rise.
All scrawls are subject to decay
and even gods will sit in nameless skies.
One day I wrote her name on London's Strand.
Buses waved in and flattened it away
like groundsmen as they turf and tend dead flowers.
I wrote again. Again the words fell prey
to taxis. There is no graffiti
that can withstand the skidmarks of public tyres.
All scrawls are subject to decay
and even gods will sit in nameless skies.
Except for you. Sly time cannot bring your demise.
You will not fade in tar, nor water green your name.
Poems hold where bodies compromise,
and if the heavens hate your heathen fame,
let them send some fat reaper to subdue your blood
but miss the sparking flint of you.