Tangled Strings Poem by Paul Reed

I practiced non-flying things,
And tangled my strings,
Took the wind and turned it upside down;

I broke all my struts,
Ran along frozen ruts
Flatly refused to leave the ground;

My plastic sheets flapped,
To their crooked frame strapped,
Billowed briefly the string held taut;

But then held sullenly to the hill
Let sweep over the gale's chill
And defied the air's onslaught;

The magnetic allure,
With gravity the cure,
Over-ruling any pathetic uplift

Of the windy day,
Trying to take me away
My leaden and clinging feet shift;

The blue January skies
To which you had lifted your eyes
In such heady anticipation;

Held in lofty dreams a dearth,
And the centre of the earth,
Became a far more likely destination;

So cowering wind and gale
That through the long grasses flail
Tottering the chimneys and masts;

Take your misgiven powers
That trembles the flowers
That wake us with your harsh blasts;

And blow yourself out
No longer the fence clout
Let me fly on a soft breeze that yields

To my colourful display
Which would flutter and sway
Over the mazy patchwork of fields