
The gliding club
Swifts, fleet as the paper planes
my granddad used to make me.
Each turn, tighter than his folds.
A gliding club, rewinding
years in yaw and pitch and roll.
Wheeling over tractor trails,
over barley’s flightless darts.
Swifts, fleet as the paper planes
my granddad used to make me.
Each turn, tighter than his folds.
A gliding club, rewinding
years in yaw and pitch and roll.
Wheeling over tractor trails,
over barley’s flightless darts.