A Flag, Black

‘Come’, said the black (why black?) flag, Hanging limp from the pole, head bow’d, ‘Yes, this is the house of the departed’. ‘Behind me, lies my master inside the house’. ‘I’, thought the black flag, ‘The herald, the proclaimer, The silent trumpeter of death, Turning eyes opaque in sorrow’. On either side of the pathway Chairs, red, lined up Waiting politely for the old, Awaiting their turn. ‘Why couldn’t I been red? My master Now swathed in red silk, the flowers In bright red and yellow, While I, in sombre black’. ‘This one would soon need me’, Thought the flag in smug self-importance. It had an eye for the soon-to-be-dead. In their glassy eyes it saw the coming death. ‘Ay’, sighed the flag, as Women in black sidled up the path. The men had little pieces of black Pinned on their shirtfronts. The skies darkened, clouds Black, billowed. It rained – Men came, umbrellas black, Shoes black, squelching in the rain. Men combed their Black-dyed hair furtively Women were upset- Black kohl stained their cheeks. The rain-washed tarmac Glistened, in black. The master’s car, a black saloon, Waited, forlorn, by the side of the street. ‘I’, thought the flag, black, ‘Rejoice with my kindred. For, death is the only truth; Black is the colour of truth’. Then, as rain fell in sheets, The master was brought out. Beyond the black umbrella bubbles, The black flag saw the ambulance, white. In the breeze, fluttering slightly, The flag readied itself. For it had a long vigil, Braving the sun and the rain. In a few days Somebody will fling The flag, black Into the bin.