Blue are the days you might suffer and dwell.
but remember, as well, that red I've seen
in the burning embers that
have relit the darkest nights for me.
The white is the shining knight you've been for me.
There's no flag emblazoned on your armour, no border.
just an express order of l'amour special.
It's ever so especially important, this:
over seas and cross country,
beyond lands, districts and territory,
your story is now sewn into
the blue, white and red of my own.
Blue are the waves we must learn to tread and red is the blood-rush to the head when the word "dead" doesn't
cover it, quite.
But the white is the light of your
remarkable soul, one wiser than your thirty years.
Promise not to apologise for tears.
It's true that fears, like dreams, will come true or unstuck.
But with a little bit of luck and
a new suit of armour
we might send our flag up a mast.
The past we can navigate together;
like English weather, it can be dealt with.
We'll mop it up, the two of us, and mount a steely defence against
the next downpour.
We've got this, my Tricolore.
