The Old Creaky Swing

You must remember how we used to sit there
In the goodness that shone down on us from
Up above,
As the old, creaky swing
Creaked with age.

In the middle of lush green pastures by the silver river
And the red farmhouse with the golden thatched roof,
As buttercups swayed in all the joy of Spring,
Who showed herself in the brilliance of spectrums
And the swift motion of new life.

Or in the mist of the Enchanted Woods
Where elves and pixies danced round toadstools
And drank the autumn dew from acorn cups,
All the time watching us with the same bewilderment
That shone from our eyes.

Or better still, on the moon, that looked like
An over-microwaved cheese-dinner disaster, craters and all,
That Mr. "Firstmanonthemoon" Armstrong
Plonked clumsily about
Under our innocent inspection.

Or for that matter, anywhere else
In the deepest realms of
Our imagination, but always,
Yes, always, on the old, creaky swing.

You can't have forgotten the day
You slammed your front door in my face,
Saying that you weren't a kid like me anymore.
But you were.
You were only nine.

Then you moved away soon after,
And my tears reflected the image of a friend now lost,
As I watched you go
From the old, creaky swing.

My folks reckoned we didn't talk anymore
Because we were sixty-two miles apart.
They didn't see that the real distance between us
Could never, ever be measured.
Though the years have slipped away
Like sand falling between my fingers,
Similarly pulled by the forces of Nature,

And though I wasted my whole childhood doing it,
I waited, and will continue to wait for you.
We could try getting back what we lost with time.
It'll always be there -
You know, the old, creaky swing.

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