Kite Flying

Battering body into sky,
The frame flexes
but does not break,
And the tail
whips the airflow,
So wild up there!

And down here:
just a pair of strings
gently tugging
the wrist tendons,
And us two,
silent and reverent
as statues,
Watching colours
carve up the clouds
in great determined thrusts,

We put our lives on earth
behind and elope
to a world of cellotape
and wooden struts,
Pummelled, triumphant
and a little doomed.

And I stand under a
twisting shadow and think:
Buddhist monks must fly kites.