A Flag Flapping

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.