Crouch under the flag parade,
countenance slung on your houses
with the pride of the homeowner
in council estates and rented slums.
Collect the bunting from the attic,
borrow the neighbour’s ladder
for this annual regime, streaked
through years of habitation.
Touch up those murals lads,
the weather gods must listen
to prayers from the other side,
a hoped-for erosion sent.
And sure, the wind soon wraps
the flags tightly around the poles
like failed candyfloss, unreadable
yet intention clear by geography.