The Swing

All there was in the end, was the swing,
Making its return journey empty,

It’s rope twisted hard against the metal
Of the crossbar, hemp burned hard

Against the hand that left last,
The body itself leapt into vacant space

At the utmost arc, when you might expect
The squeal of glee from a child

Almost ready to take the air, the giddy gap
Between rhythm and sudden dissonance.

This is what it’s like, when you turn
Your back for one instant too long

And find, that in those intervening moments
Recklessness has entered, and it’s too late

To stop.

And yet,

The landing place, not worn quite as much

As those patches where even the smallest

Kids can kick and scuff, has had enough

Weight against it, before now to make

You feel it’s potential for safety even in

The moment of abandon, when the sky

Quickens, and somewhere a voice calls

You, gently, home.