One day I wrote her name upon The Strand
One day I wrote her name in trampled sand.
Waves bustled in and flattened it away
like laundry irons scorching in my hand.
I wrote again. Again the words fell prey
to water. There is nothing I can say
that could withstand the sine 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.
I wrote again. This time the words fell prey
to taxis. There is no graffiti
that could withstand the crush of public tyres.
All scrawls are subject to decay,
and even gods will sit in nameless skies.
Except for you. Sly time cannot devise
you 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.