It’s a good day for flying with a tall wind.
Surf backs up on the glassy sand.
The sea is as it should be, grave
and on the other side of the silt from where the bridge is
a low tree relinquishes its birds.
From thirty feet, the statue of Mary looks down on bathers,
but the greenish air out where the factories are can forgive.
The kite surfer is lifted just high enough to thrill.
Gasping, he grips the weightless bar.
His heart outstrips the water’s speed
as the generous air pulls him closer to the powdery moon.
All at once he shouts, for he’s missed the moment
before knowing that he’s gone too far.
Like a gambler he must consider, let go now?
Or hold out to get closer to the waves.
Another gust, like the push of a big brother to the swing
and the sea’s ruffled surface looks smooth to him.
A shove to the left. The statue’s eyes level with his.
The surfer pleads as his kite lines up with the scree.
It’s then that the wind drops, shrivelled by the virgin’s stare
and his frantic dance ends.
Now he is spread on the rocks,
face up to worship the white buzz of an eight o’clock sky.
His kite, his shroud, his trophy.
Holy flag, last bouquet.
About The Author
Sarah Thunder is a Dublin-based poet and dramaturg. Her work explores the themes of self and other, art as refuge and nature in the digital age.
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