At The Scott Monument, Edinburgh

For Scott read Scot writ large This general of the masterstroke If born today would have been Master of the Blockbusters Would have out-Pottered Potter Would have had a global franchise On media, films and merchandise He sits in the facsimile of an Apollo Rocket In marble splendour facing Princes Street Like Captain Kirk, waiting to blast off boldly Trams glide like silent submarines Menacing and stealthy Carrying cosmopolitan passengers A hotch-potch of pigeons hobble and burble Like a D-day Armada of birds on cobbling seas David Livingstone, soldier of the Lord Holds up his Bible, not stemming The surge of indifferent unbelievers Giving him the Haw-Haw The Saltire over Jenners, droops Like a deflated parachute in the windless air An ex-squaddie, shell shocked, Rattles a hopeful tin. Small change Clatters like bullets A piper plays a militant marching tune A tourist extends a trident Holding a camera at arm's length Like a square of toast, For the all-pervasive selfie of today