The Swing

It seems forlorn, just hanging there

 

 With only the breeze to cause it’s sway

 

Oh it rocketed so into the air

 

Back in my children’s day
 

 

The earth beneath once was trodden bare

 

By happy dancing feet

 

Now the twisted rope needs repair

 

And moss grows on the seat
 

 

Time moves us ever on and leaves behind a thing

 

A joy that was has come and gone

 

And now grass grows under the swing  

July 2006