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.