I read of pursuit, the beating of men,
the windows of their neat red Kia smashed,
the L and N for Learner and Novice ripped,
of assailants shouting, ‘You fucking immigrants’,
and think of the week just gone, the men we met
a day when kite-flying wind was blowing.
The dog and I were coming from Ben Head
and on the home straight and she was doing
what she does, staying up close to the foreshore,
pausing wherever she felt like pausing,
giving the world her complete attention.
There was nowhere else we needed to be.
Two of the men took the time to greet her
in their own language and, she being sociable,
stood to allow them to touch her head.
Another man’s kite was already so high
the only hint he was flying one was the string
you had to look twice to see that he was holding.
There were spars and reels, fabric on the sand.
The bigger kites were being assembled.
We wished them well and left them to their sport,
surrounded by the things that spoke of home.
Soon, for a while, there would be peace in just
feeling connected to the world by wind,
in doing something they had always done,
holding the world and nothing in their hands
on a stretch of coast where they did not know
a word of the language, a living soul.
Tom French’s most collections from Gallery Press include The Convent of Mercy, Company and The Sea Field.
the windows of their neat red Kia smashed,
the L and N for Learner and Novice ripped,
of assailants shouting, ‘You fucking immigrants’,
and think of the week just gone, the men we met
a day when kite-flying wind was blowing.
The dog and I were coming from Ben Head
and on the home straight and she was doing
what she does, staying up close to the foreshore,
pausing wherever she felt like pausing,
giving the world her complete attention.
There was nowhere else we needed to be.
Two of the men took the time to greet her
in their own language and, she being sociable,
stood to allow them to touch her head.
Another man’s kite was already so high
the only hint he was flying one was the string
you had to look twice to see that he was holding.
There were spars and reels, fabric on the sand.
The bigger kites were being assembled.
We wished them well and left them to their sport,
surrounded by the things that spoke of home.
Soon, for a while, there would be peace in just
feeling connected to the world by wind,
in doing something they had always done,
holding the world and nothing in their hands
on a stretch of coast where they did not know
a word of the language, a living soul.
Tom French’s most collections from Gallery Press include The Convent of Mercy, Company and The Sea Field.
