I cannot remember the last time I had flown a kite.

I do recall the rush of a successful take-off when you catch the right wind, precisely when you need it. I remember the thrill and wonder that engulfed me as I watched the kite dancing in mid-air, twirling, swooping, always threatening to dive towards the earth or into a lofty treetop.

The suspense and fear of a bad wind coming in to snap the cord, breaking that harmonious bond between you, carrying the kite away to some distant place . . . forever lost.

The tragedy of that dreadful dream coming true – when it does in fact break.

The disappointment of a poor take-off, on those days when the wind does not catch . . . some days you just cannot be lifted. The frustration of starting again, and then failing again.

How fickle is an aircraft of paper and string?

Some nights I dream that I am the one suspended in mid-air – dancing, swirling, wavering, over treetops and powerlines. The wind picks up and I am lifted above the birds in their migration, planes in their trajectory, even above the stars in their course when it gets late.

Something thin and unreliable tethers me to the earth and threatens to snap. I have no other force to pull me back, no mother ship or heading to guide me. Not even a star to aim for or a compass to point me north.

If I should break away from that cord, what will become of me? Where will I go? Wherever the wind wills, I suppose . . . the heartless heedless wind.

What am I without my single line to the earth?

A colourful weightless shape, a blot of poster paint in a sky full of watercolours.