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Higher than the hedge they soar
the children -
Rockets heading for the sun
to fall to the supple ring
then soar even higher,
over and over.
Oblivious to the hills beyond the river,
the steepled village,
the white gold barley fields,
the joy is in the soaring
through sparkling air,
the head over heel tumbling,
the hand over foot cartwheeling
in mastery of pliant limbs.
Always there's the dream
'One day we will fly
as easily as the birds.'
Even after dark,
this August evening,
they're still there - soaring
towards a deep pink blush of clouds,
the pale-gold harvest moon.
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