The boy who stands upon the hill

The boy stands upon the hill
I recognise him still
V-neck and grey shorts
He stares into the sun
wears a frown, questioning
His neat parting ruffled by the wind

A slim finger winds the plastic prop
Unsure of when to stop
he keeps on turning
Holds the fragile object
in his hand
Building tension in the rubber band

The balsa skeleton takes the strain
and stretched around the frame
dope-covered paper
smoothes the fuselage and wings
Singing in the hilltop breeze
that chills his scrubbed knees

He winds on, gazing at the sky
but does not let it fly
Standing still before the sun
tension builds
Balsa splinters as he turns the prop
and still he does not stop

The brittle skin begins to tear
If launched into the air
the wings could climb
the prop would spin
release the pent-up rubber band
Yet still he holds it firm within his hand

I close my eyes and see him
winding that propeller still
The boy who stands upon the hill