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I am a great admirer of English poetry from the time of Chaucer up until the middle of the twentieth century when it appeared to lose its way. I love all aspects of this planet but are sometimes sad when I think of what we are doing to it.

Tuesday 30 August 2022



Up where the air is clean and sharp,

up where the wind is sharp and keen

like a knife poised between the ribs,

and the sun flings bright spears of gold

downward toward the distant earth

he hangs upon impatient winds,

wings at rest, without a beat

to trouble the clear air’s calm.

He waits and watches the far fields,

questing for the still signs of death

so he can sweep silently down

and tear the cold flesh from dead bone,

then arrow-swift return skyward

to scale again bright hills of cloud

that rise proud from the sea of sky

until he can soar no higher.

And I, earthbound wretch, can but watch

his stately path through spheres of air

withheld from me and from my kind,

doomed to watch and sadly wonder

how it is to ride the wild winds

and look in pity on the works

of mere men, shrunk to nothing, from

his icy throne. Ah! I must turn

my eyes from his circling splendour

patrolling his unchallenged realm

and pull the cord that links my hands

to the whirling shape that just I

can command, a pitiful thing 

of wood and paper that soils his

name yet holds it in awe and praise:

My servant of the sky, my kite.

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