To the Flag

Windswept shore of golden sand

where spikes of seagrass stand

Christendom gave root, 

On bedrock North Sea gnawed

spindrift laden salted storms.

Jarrow slacks a pontiff’s gold 

Illuminated words

that spoke peace and love

Of sinners and saints

To white, white gulls in grey stormy skies

The word made real, 

by goose feather quill,

solid, unyielding, timeless 

ink stained fingers through

conglomerate, of Alum, 

pigments… hand made…

pestle and mortar ground.

Alchemy of the word

on vellum transposed

Historia Ecclesiastica gentis Anglorum 

For here the northern saints did roam

Cuthbert, Aiden, Hilda, Oswald, Wilfred

The venerable Bede,

They walked their walk

England oh my England 

In liberalism, democracy, and acceptance 

To the flag we do pledge.