High on a flag pole flutters a flag. Once its emblem stood for warfare. Many where doomed by this standard, when lords and bishops roamed under it. Today it still casts a shadow, but the lords and bishops have been ousted by financiers and capitalist barons. Drovers have been replaced by motorised chariots, cobblers by food banks, charities flourish.

In a doorway lies a homeless man. In a bank a hungry child cries. Depression floats like treacle in the air. The flag flaps in despair, bending to the wind of change. Yes a white rose flutters in the wind, as cold stones speak of deeds in the past.

I wonder had Wordsworth’s “White Doe” not been beheaded, how different a tale might these stones tell. Had the Rising of the North succeeded, the white and red roses may have joined together. Such a joining may have ousted the power house that is London. Allowing more balance within these fabled lands. But that door was closed in 1587.

Footnote:
I apologize to my regular readers, at the present time I am struck in a rather philosophical grove. I hope to return soon to my more usual style of fiction.