Those arcing kites move methodically, marvellously controlled
in Greenwich Park, an acrobatic triumph
only to be wondered at. We clap, whooping praise,
then swift as the man who rises on a freaking gust,
thrust our faces the way of the wind and bluster by.
I think life’s perfect kite flyers floss their teeth,
pit themselves against the elements
and sleep in tessellation. When my vessel breaks
I endeavour to mend it, but gluing beauty
using unsuitable adhesive is rarely satisfactory.