The Swing in My Aunt’s Garden

by Raymond Fenech


The swing hangs creaking on the broken chain
screeching loudly in excruciating pain,
dribbling rusty-red blood and hanging lame
on winded years, day in day out the same.

How many a child has sat here and played
how many on its wooden bucket swayed
before with age its outer skin was flayed;
time flew, children grew; all to rest were laid?

Just memory of all that time remains
like photos shot in some special time frame,
sparked from an urge or mania to contain
life as it races forward like a train.

The swing hangs creaking on the broken chain
as summer breeze wistfully speaks in pain,
whispering emotionally about our joy and strain
like conscience when hard it pokes us in vain.

The swing squeals contemplating on the rain
joining chorus with time’s tick tock refrain
of life that’s been: will never be again,
like dreams escaping on a choo choo train.

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