A Study of the River

My poems, prose, and pictures of the river near my home.


3. The Kite


Soaring high, and fast, and free.

Surfing on the wind with outspread arms and tail feathers of burning, blazing colour - red, and green, and yellow, and blue - more beautiful and more intense than the rainbow sitting languidly in the sky.

The kite does not falter - 

It wastes no thought to wonder on its height, or the breeze which whips it into a whirling, swirling frenzy - or even the child that clings gleefully to its rope, hands sticky with clammy sweat and melted ice cream.

When the hands slip - the rope tugging away with a terrible power only a man within the sights if freedom could hope to muster - the kite pauses for only a second in the air - a brief snatched snippet of time - surrounded by rippling azure and fluffy white sheep, the sun shining bright in its face,

lighting it up with the colours of final, glorious escape.

The kite is still flying, but this time it flies free. 

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