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.

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