After the kite carnival
Totems of flight left their parade,
In a fulminant flurry
As if a storm fury
Had broken them.
Air that, all winter, had seemed empty
Filled by spring syringe, breeding colour;
The sky rearranged her furniture
Fastidious and fussy, twilight
Took centre stage on her mantelpiece.
The Boy who had heaved string all day
Sang for his supper by kissing
Gran’s alabaster forehead:
Nectarous, wrinkled, carved
Inflections of toil, trouble & love.
‘Where will Gran go?”
“Beyond the gates of Deepstone Road
Where we will scatter rose petals
Washed down by the rain.”
He decided he liked the word ‘scatter’
A mantra to
Slash midnight scarecrows.
He strung the kite to lampshade,
Restless in amber’ing streetlight
To take flight over human habitat,
Through seas of flotsam
Exhaled as brandy tumbling o’er lips.
He counted kites in azure skies,
Eloquence of sleep found its tongue
Dreamscape drifting under pillow
He dreamt of an ambulance
Quiet, at foot of his bed/
Hailstones falling from shredded moon.
Woken by a gentling rain
Beginning to gather in gutter,
Becoming first footprints of the sun.
Wherever puddles form
They form on buried pasts.
He stands at the window.
The sky doesn’t promise wind
He streams kite ribbons
Onto the bedroom floor.
Gran steals caviar from
Her breakfast tray,
The waiter serves tea
In a gold tea cup.
She smiles, thankful
For the weather.
The Boy kisses Gran’s forehead.
“Tomorrow,” he laughs,
“We will scatter our
Kites into the sun.”