This poem is taken from PN Review 30, Volume 9 Number 4, March - April 1983.
Kite FlyingOn days of noisy wind that combs
The rippling grasses this way and that
As it passes, and tugs at clothes
With sly unbuttoning fingers
And takes the breath away, I think
How we would lie in some drowned hollow
While the slow kite wriggled in its stream.
How sad that some boys never learn
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