If I Write...

And if I write in chalk on Scottish pavements,

the verse will last a day.

A temporary crime,

a vernal vandalism,

timed out, washed off, wiped out

by spring weather in the borders.

And if I write in sand on northern beaches,

the lines will last a wave

or at most a neap tide:

silicon-scratched sonnets

scrubbed out, rinsed off, swept out,

this tidal spring, from the coastline.

And if I write in ink on stolen paper,

the lines will last an hour

or at most a fine day:

a counterfeit canto

torn out, screwed up, smoothed out

in spring fevers, next the high road.