A Hovering Kite
A hovering kite in an autumn sky
Secured by a spectral gossamer string.
Above the darting dragonfly
Is a muscled pulse of a wind stirred wing.
He's a feathered king of a fallow field
Of blackened straw on a cracked earth plain,
By a tin roofed home still fast to shield
The beating sun and a hope of rain.
There's a garden lost in a brick edged square
Of dying pear and runner bean,
A Coolibah shades a broken chair
With its waving limbs and toughened green.
The homeward tracks have long blown down,
Their bedroom claimed by the brown winged moth,
A family lost to the begging town,
To idle days and a growing wrath.
There's a distant range of a smudged blue height,
A once-drowned log from a dry mud creek,
And the arching speed of a stirring kite
With an angled wing and a wind-blown shriek.