Art Thou Not A Costermonger?

it is a poem

However strong we may appear
secrets hide between our ears.
To the grave these are took
and without an untold worship slung.

But when we reach our other place
where remains this trace of how
we felt about that last torn isle,
and why we are as we?
To others odd and thinkless stuffs,
but to us a daily must -
a way of truly being us.

Flashes of light so clear for us
to see the sea at night
whatever seeks to see the truth
is guided by this route.

Red-white stripes, fresh and new
for any soul in its view,
how soon to be the one it sees
with it's all soothing eye.
And when it disappears from sight,
a day for us to die?

They ring in honour of the last
soldier from the troubled days
who sought to live in truth without
this vessel pure and honest in its ways.

Copyright © Daisy Mae Hall