Black metal seats edge the path
in the park, discarded staves line the grass,
a cable hangs in coils from the tree
these are Edinburgh's green meadows
post-festival, the lawn brown from the weight
of the Big Top, yet here, a man prepares
his kite on centre stage, perfects the angle
of the launch, untwists the lines and waits:
the wind will tip the frame and lift
a stream of light; a swirl of purple blue
then dip, like voices, after the applause
leaving an echo of wing-beat
and footstep, faint as a falling leaf.
