Out walking I saw a child
Flying a kite, and I thought
About the strings.

Always the strings. Attached
To his kite were strings. And this child
Knew he was having

To pull them to make the kite fly
To wherever he was heading. And, likewise, I
Thought of you, too, always pulling strings,

Seeking me out, at night,
Or by day, but never letting me back in
To see you. Like this child

Running the beach; just him and his kite, solitary -
And so I remain watching you, no string's attached.

Poem © Mark Pirie, 2006