i have no memories of my own father taking me kite-flying in local parks. i have always loved the ducking and diving of kites flying in strong winds. i decided to try and leave this memory with my own boys
Kite flying fun, windy the weather,
father and son in park together;
breeze-battered leafless branches,
caps and scarves get second chances.
Bright red boots on small boy’s feet,
oversized coat, photogenic sweet;
spool unravelled from little hands:
shouted out paternal commands.
Wind-filled fabric, dizzy with delight,
gust-lifted, primary coloured kite;
ascended fast, cloud-ward rose,
North Wind’s billow-cheeks blowed.
String pulled hard, ariel-hovered,
faltered then suddenly recovered,
see tail toss-turn, wildly wave,
tree tentacles suddenly enslaved.
High up we looked, quite forlorn:
tug too hard: fabric easily torn;
beyond reach, kite terribly tangled,
gingerly pulled, all known angles.
Break not the heart of little boy,
how to rescue trapped sky-toy?
Tentative tugs, release surprised,
celebratory shouts and smiling eyes.