Before the British Fleet sailed out
At this despite
Like one last lonely, errant knight
For chivalry,
Three hundred years set all
This rabid world alight,
Then slowly faded,
Like some tainted tapestry.

Three hundred years hang all
Upon this lonely hour,
Each generation tugs its children
At the blood,
To whisper ‘pride’ at each and every
Listening ear
That every tide and time be caught
Before the flood.

But as the cynic world
Now stands aside
To see this final far-flung tilt
At mastery,
Who waits as breathless as
The autumn bride,
While time sits trembling at the edge
Of history?

David Lewis Paget

(April 1982 - The Falklands)