I sit, astonished by the pink kite:
its scoop and plunge, the briefness of it;
an escaped blouse, a pocket of silk
thumping like a heart
tight above the shimmering hill.
The sheer snap and plummet
sculpting the air’s curve, the sky’s chambers.
An affair with the wind’s body;
a feeling for steps in the rising air, a love
sustained only by the high currents
and the hopeless gesture of the heart’s hand.
The kitemaster has gone, invisible
over the hard horizon;
wind walks the grass between us.
I see the falling,
days later feel the crash.
From Robin Robertson’s A Painted Field, the very first Picador Poetry collection, published in February 1997.