Are you listening to me, son? I am only your old kitemaker,
My poems are flimsy things
Torn by the wind, caught in mango trees,
Good sport for boys and dreamers.
My silent songs. But once I fashioned
A kite like a violin,
She sang most mournfully, like the wind
In tall deodars.
Are you listening? Remember
The Dragon-kite I made one summer?
No, you were too young. A great
Kite, with small mirrors to catch the sun
And eyes and a tongue, and gold
Trappings and a trailing silver tail.
A kite for the gods to ride!
And it rose most sweetly, but the wind
Came up from nowhere,
A wind in waiting for us.
My twine snapped and the wind took the kite,
Took it over the flat roofs
And the waving trees and the river
And the blue hills for ever,
No one knew where it fell. Son, are you
Listening? All my kites
Are torn, but for you I'll make
A bright new poem to fly!