Bloody Sunday Handkerchief
By Catherine Galvin, 6th year.
There is only the ripple of the flag
as we fall in our flight.
Eons of agony have
finally been recognised,
yet, our pained past
cannot triumph on this
I stand and salute to my safety,
raising my beaten hand high
above the blackened bruises,
spitting in the face that has
haunted our hopes.
A starched white signal was all
it took for surrender,
yet, as I stare around at the shattered,
all I see are fragile, empty men
with only death’s hand to hold.
Crimson black floods our green
and we are lost to a sea of sadness
where oars and rafts lay barren,
and wives weep over fallen brothers
and lost sons.
I plea as they pry me apart.
My spirit splinters as they
shatter our sacred white surrender
and march forth to slaughter
more selfless soldiers.
The flag stands as we fall,
holding firm against foes.