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~~~ Bobby's Kite ~~~
~ Bobby's Kite ~
Wind-chapped faces sprint into an autumn sunrise, commanding kites with ice-cream moustaches, unravelling skeined strands at the heady rate of knots, as their hand-made craft, weaves and wends an impossible Tango upon skylit, thermals, not discordant with two paper wyverns, feuding for mistral supremacy.
Grandma emerges, in an ambrosial haze of suffusing, head-turning lavender, from amongst a gaggle of rotund, matronly ladies, gracing the podium of immaculate Mary-Jane’s and charcoaled Flapper shoes, on mink-stippled nylons, which threaten a crooked seam. Her hoary, bunned thatch rests, like an ashen crown of harvest moonlight, dancing with aspects of falling snowflakes, coiffed in new gestures of former glory. Apple cheeks over Elizabeth Arden, silkened jowls cachinnate comfortable laughter to unveil a promising morning for all and sundry.
A Laura Ashley muslin, Summer dress clings the generous bounty of a sexagenarian Duchess, who sways, and jounces in undulation, whilst rumours of Dior swish oscillations, as she strains leeward into waves of crisp, clandestine bellows of aerial flow, genuflecting, as she retrieves Bobby's luminous Frisbee.
Sally’s jelly sandals squelch in a shallow ditch, pulling funny faces as a squishy tadpole announces her presence to nibble dainty pinky-toes. Bobby’s khaki trousers take on a new colour from a younger sister’s frantic splashings, screeching with frenzied excitement, shouting,
“ Nanna; come and dance with us! “, as their voices become half-lost in the shifting winds.
Eventide descends her nubilous, opaque blinds, as back home at the dowager’s palace, they gather round their ancient love, flitting like vivacious chaffinches in Winnie-the Pooh pyjamas, as a fur-pillared Tiny snakes around Audrey’s swollen ankles, fawning for the unmistakeable rattles of crunchy biscuits, eager to hear bedtime tales of when grandma was Alice, diligently seeking two butterflies to rest upon her weary knees, and fill a lonely heart.
Then an excited Bobby, surreptitiously covering the hole that Tiny made, lays his head upon bosomed pillows, to dream of buried treasure and castles of the sea, and dinky Sally rests her sleepy lids, to reverie a rainbow maelstrom, riding ships of the Eastern deserts, and Turkish delight, whilst grandma’s kiss seals their day with a loving heart, to doze with open book into a welcoming Shackleton high-seat chair, tired, but happy from a lavish day, laden with the surfeit deluge of unforgettably, perfect moments.