Simon Turp RIP

On golden sands stands young Vinny,
next to him the deep, cold sea.

Holding tight in gentle grasp
a slender thread, that does hold fast

a kite to Gaia, life and hearth
to all that exists here on earth.

In the heavens soars the kite,
floating free no need to fight

with clouds that don’t hold any rain
precipitate of cold, hard pain.

The string it breaks, the kite it falls
Vinny cries out, much appalled.

The kite, you see, no longer flies,
it hits the ground and Vinny cries.