I met a boy. A refugee. He said to me "Take a picture of our kite!"
His black kite made of rubbish, defiance and imagination flew higher and higher until it shared the cornflower heights with the evening moon.
I took the photograph. The boy laughed and shouted "Now I am immortal!"
He spoke English. I replied. He spoke Arabic. I felt small, locked in my ignorance. Paul translated and the heavy doors opened again. Three people. Football and Spain and where Scotland is. We shared the freedom of words and time, new experience and old.
And far above all prophets and men, the kite flew higher and higher.