You are old enough now to remember this.
The overhead power line at the cottage
meant we could not fly the new kite there.
I knew a field five minutes away
with a ruined medieval chapel
and a view down the slope to a bay
where hundreds of souls drowned in a fabled storm.
But we told you of the space and the wind.
Your daddy showed you how to fly the kite
while your mummy, grandma and me went
to church! Vestiges of paint remained
though the weathers of centuries had scrubbed
the internal walls of most of the murals.
Through the arches of the chancel window,
we saw you flying your kite: serious,
already skilled by a good teacher.
You managed the controls, intuitively
aware of aero dynamics, like
some latter-day Daedalus, as the kite,
mass produced sky blue plastic from China,
bucked and soared in the prevailing westerly.
Rightly oblivious of history,
you were a five year old Benjamin Franklin
looking to steal heaven’s thunder and lightning.