Hamish Ironside
The Flight of a Frisbee
If you like that sort of thing, the flight of a frisbee
Can be a kind of perfection, like shooting a plane
Along the edge of a door so the shaving curls,
Unbroken, with the shiver and snap of snake. However,
This is something else: the wobbles and plummets
Of an awkward silver-speckled disc that flashes
The summer’s hottest sun across the vast
Lawn on which I watch the distant throwers.
Yet I am spellbound by the unceasing chasing
And flailing, the frisbee’s flightless arcs, the girls;
Vague and happy limbs and gestures, the sight
Of laughter, too far away for me to hear.
Too far for me to even see their faces.
Only their shadows creep towards me. I could
Move closer; then again, perhaps this is
As close as one can get to love, or should.
Page(s) 38
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