Harrogate 21/3/22

 

It’s when I see the kites

a family are flying on the Stray

and notice how they glint in blue and gold

belatedly I catch on, how today

the bichrome of the flag of the Ukraine

has never been completely out of sight:

I’ve seen its vivid tones unrolled

 

not just where you’d expect:

flourished on the apex of a pole;

sellotaped to windows or on doors;

on gaudy button badges pinned to clothes;

on buses and on taxicabs that roll

around the town asserting their respect

for those abused by Putin's wars;

 

but also leaping out

from hidey-holes I’ve walked past every Spring:

the polyanths beside the Cenotaph 

nest tiny suns in bold blue petal rings;

a cloudless heaven hoves above vast throngs

of golden daffodils on roundabouts,

and strolling Christchurch cycle path 

 

my sensitised eye is drawn

towards the clock face on the church’s tower.

For decades, barely noticed, it has tolled

the fleetings of my life upon the hour:

an azure disc where Roman digits glower

like petals of a sunflower in the dawn:

those selfsame colours: blue and gold.

 

They symbolise fresh air

above the vibrant cornfields, people say:

freedom and food. So let us all fly kites

and let the colours brighten Putin’s grey,

his long march backwards, back to the Cold War Age,

the Curtain sealing out the sun, back where 

we looked on life in black and white.