...
heading a fanfare
of tribal others.
Now nations march
to the grammar
of my squares
and rectangles
(not to mention
the odd triangle).
On grand parades
you’ll see me displayed
to the height of my glory.
The centre of ritual attention.
But I stay calm and carry on as any flag
worth its weight
in cloth would do
up a pole...
down a pole
ever playing
my starring role
in the fabric
of a nation’s unfolding
of what’s known
as Independence.
How I have danced
in the neutral breeze
for monarchs overseas
and seen the colours
of myself reshuffled
for the long shackled
about to step
for I too have heard...
of that feeling called national pride
from the well-informed lips of the transatlantic winds
that keep me flapping
as well as up-to-date
into their own stride
on history’s shifting weight, those winds that bring me tidings of risings and uprisings,
of timely severings
from a mother country’s
absentee apron strings...
a people defined
by Empire’s still visible spectre rebirthing into their own mirror. And so at midnight’s chime I become a banner
for a milestone beginning
hoisted skywards
as a fluttering monument
to the future.
And when freedom tolls
see how I lord it
up my stately pole
to trumpet and drum roll
And in the reckoning hour when old rages grow mute I command
a multitude’s salute
and a speechless minute
falls across the land
oh what would...
oh what would
the United Nations
the Commonwealth
the Latin American Confederation the Arab Emirates
(in short the globe)
do without the likes of me and all my colourful kin?
We whose silent tongue
is flaunted in the wind.
Therefore unravel
what hidden meaning you will from my flying
geometry of colours.
full-mast
I am an emblem
of protocol and celebration. Half-mast
I am the drooping shroud
of mass lamentation.
To you who wave me
from the bonded crowd
what words can a flag offer beyond the fervour
of slogans
that shadow my rainbow?
Yet since a flag also knows how it feels to be thrown
to the fury of flames
(and I shall call no names) on behalf of every flag
I ask of all who wave me to order: am I the mere cloth you brandish to a marching creed
basking in the vanquished? Or am I a nation’s handkerchief flown from a flagstaff of justice? As democratic as sun and moon.