Crossing the Tamar Bridge brings a sense of polite revolution,

a feeling of identity regained, no matter how mixed or diluted

the poetic blood has become, for no-one should ever 100 percent solution

or wrap the flag of choice around cold shoulders when it is suited.

The black background holding the white cross aloft

held high by a Kernow sister dressed in a blue dress

whipped up by an Atlantic wind so soft

is the closest I come to holding up a banner or crest.

A son of Cornwall, a son of the Midlands Too,

a grandfather who talked of nothing but Canadian skies

and raised in what was then a small Oxfordshire place,

but with Scottish heart engrained in history, regal so true,

and yet when the dust settles and the ink dries

we are all immigrants, with mixed up souls and a battered suitcase.

Ian D. Hall 2015.