Kite-Watch

A mother learns her daughter to fly a kite,
Arms raised on the wind like a pagan sun dance reaching
As her body cuts through breezes that lift
Lift the stealth shape of cheap plastic into flight,
Gliding stationary as though standing still
Surveying the treescape beneath and rising ‘til
It reaches its last inch of rope pulled tight
‘Round her fist and resolute
In riding on the string of hope
Tethered to the palm which first gathered to her heaving bosom
The body of an ever-growing thing
Now staring up in wonder at what a little wind
And the sun at its highest can do.