Flight of the...



It lay in the drawer
with blue nylon softened by dust,
the kite I'd made at sixteen,
when most friends
preferred strong beer and cars
to any toy on string.
Such kept for later
I thought. Too soon
the soaring days were over,
fallen to a flat icon on the floor
and a cloth tail
folded...

and so it waited
until this summer
when we took it by road
with your bucket and spade,
by ferry from Mallaig,
on foot over the whale
hump of Canna,
past hazels prevailing
in one direction
like the fingers of stiff hands,
a firm southerly easing us up
and over each basalt block,
bog cotton bent all the way,
wiry grasses streaming
to where rock, bog and grass
all dropped from view
where you looked with your weight
on the back foot
on small quiet breakers,
kicked moss and rabbit bones
to oblivion.

It ripped up among astounded gulls,
a thrown diamond,
till it found its element and floated
as weightless as thought,
as the Cuillin of Skye in blue haze,
as furthest Hebrides on a levelled sea.
You took the cord with your strong, young hands
and held it.
Remember that moment,
the long, upward tug of joy.


Colin

PS What is the word missing in the title? Any suggestions for a better
title?