Days when the sky
was all scudding cloud
and space –
the rate of climb
of those pioneers
like Mum’s dad,
flying flimsy string
and canvas contraptions –
were there again
when you stretched
full length on the hill,
lay back and thought
of eglantine –
was that the name?
– and thick masks
of colour back home,
the profligate spill
of climbing plants,
reaching for the sky
and above you
the space
