Kite Celeste

It took me a week to make.
Carefully cutting the washi paper,
two crossed sticks defined the portrait aspect,
the sail decorated with the things you liked:
A photo of the Kandinsky print in your hall,
a drawing of An Teallach that we climbed,
some bars of music for your flute,
the Duddon sonnet that always made you weep,
a fragment of your favourite green frock.
And a long tail seven times the length of the kite
multi-coloured, blue for the sky, gold for the sun,
white for the fluffy white clouds.
Three bridles carefully measured
to balance the kite in the sky
tied together, then a fragile cotton link
connects the knot to the string,
the kite to the man.

I take the kite to the moors that we loved.
Lastly, I write your name on the kite, not in black
but in chestnut brown for your hair.
The wind takes the kite out of my hand,
lifts it gently, plays with it,
takes it above the earthbound green and brown.

Then I sharply yank the string, our link is broken,
I watch as the kite floats free ever higher.
Only the tail is visible, blue, gold and white.
Now even that is gone. I cry.

Then I went home and made another kite
for me to fly.