Looking back
I recall
The Union Jack
And Taps
At nightfall.
Sometimes I desire
The certainty of the camp fire,
That ancient union
Felt in the communion
Of song.
It has long since gone
But memories live on,
Tinged with nostalgia perhaps
For Taps
And the flag that did unite
Both black and white
In the camp fire’s simple light.
As we walked
And talked
The breeze
Rustled in the trees.
Then, on the way back
A Union Jack
Flapped and I
Thought on how empire’s fires
Rise then die.
A February wind gusts down Whitehall.
The thin flag flaps but does not fall.
I hear water lapping
And see a flag flapping
Over receeding shores
And rugged moors.
Pale
Ships sail.
Gulls wail.
Masts crack.
There is no turning back.
An old man looks out
Upon the rout.
The shouting dies.
His eyes
Fixed upon the flag, which still flies
Red, white, and blue, against the darkening skies.
K Morris - Poet 