Departures

The tide is low

A mist clings to the marshland floor

We tilled this soil, we blessed this land

With calloused soul and sunburnt hand

A sacred promise we would keep

To live in peace, to tend, to sow

We never dreamed we'd have to go

On which so many vows

A signature we would not give

For King or Crown,

A neutral stand, a fragile plea

For simple faith and liberty