I was going to
write a poem about

Tibetan prayer flags.
I was going to
start it like this:

“They hang their prayers
like shirts to dry in the
forgiving morning sunlight”.

And that would
be true, although
the days must be windy
as well as sunny. But

the Himalayan wind
ripples the flags far
stronger than the breezes

in suburbs or commuter belts
could, and from the flags
blow good will, spreading
out through the spaces

beyond the lines. All that comes
from easy-iron shirts hung out
to dry is spent moisture.

These prayer flags, though:
they breathe like ridden horses,
lungs, bright in the five pure lights.
Put up in patterns, their

primary colours remind English
villagers of bunting from a jubilee
or a summer fair. Really,

the coded sequences are
elemental. And these flags,
they don’t claim ground; they don’t

define, demand salute. And
their prayers are not personal
messages posted skywards: they are

for people; they bless the paths and
protect the passes for travellers, not
the land for the pioneers

and patriots. So, instead, I chose
to keep these threads like beads
to count and colour. I will not

write with the bathos
of uninformed eyes.