March Kite Off Shore
When I was young, simple things found brilliance
through my father’s patient alchemy. Thus:
Two wooden skewers tied into a cross,
notched and edged with wood strips into a frame.
Thin brown paper from the grocer’s, unwrapped
from a parcel of salt beef, measured, cut.
Edges folded, pasted over the frame
with a glue mixed from flour and water.
Half-hitches tying a string bridle to
the spar, lark’s head knot to the flying line.
Coloured pages from gran’s old magazines,
fanned into ribbons, strung out as a tail.
And last, a soaring March wind, transmuting
these hopes, these gossamer dreams, into flight.