The Red Arrows

The Red Arrows loop a heart above us,
and I muse: nice, but it could be neater,
you know what I mean?

I like the colours, though, all for us, by the sea.
I am small and weary, got sunburnt
for the first time recently –

it stung, but hey, it is sunny here,
so I found a kind of comfort in its sense…
you know what I mean?

My kite keeps getting tangled. Dogs scare me.
I climbed right to the top of a lighthouse
with the weirdest tiny stairs,

but couldn’t manage the helter-skelter at the fair,
trotted back down, silent, to my family and
hoped they would know what I meant.

I could never be a Red Arrow, am not cut out
for curling up tight in a tiny machine
to hurtle all around and upside-down

but I want it, you know? That recognisable,
undeniable achievement, to be able to fly,
to carve a message into the sky,

and then reappear proudly at my mother’s side
having gone through with something –
you know what I mean?