We stood before the open gate
and waited in the springtime sun
as none of us spoke much that time,
we only heard the wind blow hard.
We watched her get her red kite up:
the girl who came from Amsterdam.
Her hair was black in curls and shone,
she wore a jacket and a scarf.
She let the kite go in the air
and you ran forward through the gate
to grab the line, thus saved the day.
You took her hand. We held our breath.
We, others, knew right there and then
that you may never let her go
so obvious it was to us.
The kite is gone, but love has stayed.
Your children now play in the grass,
a girl with black and curly hair,
the boy’s is red just like his dad,
and they have kites that fly all day.