Prayer Flags

 

On Pyrmont Bridge

I stop, and stare

At the fluttering flags,

That flank the way;

In the rising wind,

I hear their song

And instantly

Close my eyes

 

I must have looked silly –

Standing with closed eyes

And instead

Of looking

At the dazzling harbour;

Here was I -

Listening,

Lost

 

For I had gone back many years ago,

Far from the flutter

Of Cockle Bay

To a monastery -

Verdant hills

Grey cloudy skies

A golden monastery

And that same sound

 

The Phrr-phrr-phrr

Of white prayer flags

Lining the hill;

While I, brooding,

Misty-eyed

Wanted to hide -

Ah, the blessed cloud cover

Like a shroud of sorrow

 

Until a monk arrived,

Purple-robed

Smiling,

Diffusing the edges of the world

Pointing to the northern skies;

As the wind picked up speed

The flags sang louder

The cold wind bit harder -

 

That same wind

Cleared the skies

And for a few seconds,

The mountains forgave -

Kanchenjunga appeared

And disappeared;

The monk smiled,

‘It is all a dream…’

 

Phrr-phrr-phrr-phrr

The sounds continue

I open my eyes

The sun shines

Through pensive clouds

On the waters;

Somewhere, a valley merges with bridge

An icy stream with harbour

 

But who goes there?

Is that a deep purple robe?

The crowds throng the bridge

And I am left behind

Under the prayer flags

Of Pyrmont Bridge

They sing in a mountain tongue,

‘It is all a dream…’

 

9^th September, 2026