Our Flag

I wander among them, the fiddlers and the fishermen, the goddesses and the followers of the moon. The poets and the selkies.

They opened the door, and I walked in.

They promised me honey and pomegranate and we feasted and we danced. After morning tea, the older women gave me gloves and taught me how to tend the land. In another chance meeting, they showed me how to clean an ancient well. Sometimes I smile before I rest.

I curl under our flag, and it warms me.

It settles me when my mind wants to chase after the wind, and the rain, and the cattle, straight over the cliff’s edge and fall over into where the ships wreck on rocks underneath. Something whispers, “only follow the star that knows the way”.

Then it admits change, “No. Better still. Only follow the star that isn’t sure which way to go yet”.

Our flag feels like that childhood blanket, with a satin edge. Velvet from a curtain that kept the draft from the hallway. Warm silk, from imagined ball gowns, in children’s books.

The guiding star of home.