It will be quick for some, the flash of light,

like stepping outside of the cinema

during the day. If you’re lucky that’s it:

no burns, no fear, no pain. If India

and Pakistan decide to go to war,

better to live in Bombay or Lahore.

And if Pyongyang succeeds—should a nuke land

on San Francisco—Fisherman’s Wharf’s ideal.

If so, that’s it—but not for those in Oakland:

at 12 miles out, the burns would make skin peel.

White shirts melt less than darker suits, I hear,

if you aren’t far, but also not too near.

I live in Fife, along St Andrews’ coast,

where haar crawls inland, wind-swept through the kirks

like canon smoke; where sindry steeples burst

heavenward in 1559. Knox

rattled church naves right here; in the fallout,

the Scottish Reformation came about.

What will be reformed, if once again

a bomb drops here? It won’t be Sanct Androis.

My guess would be the Topol hits Faslane.

No hammers, spades, nor jags; nor the loud noise

of Calvin-crazed worshippers, but rather

an 800-kiloton yield south of Arrochar,

which would be quick for some, but not for me.

450 REM radiation

would waft eastward, burning invisibly

Perth, Aberdeen—and so, yes—Leuchars Station.

If worldwide we decide to go to war,

it doesn’t really matter where you are.