THE KITE ON ANCIENT AFRICAN OAK TREE

I remember when it used to be
The ancient African oak tree
Gray old as the hills
Good the windy whispering tills

Those yore days for the kites
They clove to some ominous heights
Africans took to their mountain glare
Then with little straw or no sigh we stare

The kites on ancient African oak tree
Signaled the clumsy northern spree
Signs of yore in African unclear plane
Silver belts satiric of silky terrain

I remember when it used to be
The kites on ancient African oak tree