The Old Swing

She sits on the old swing
under the maple, trailing her high heels
in the dust, pushing it back a little,
letting it go, her eyes closed, remembering
when she was small and strong and swing would soar
up to the clouds as she tugged on the rough ropes,
leaning way back, kicking her legs forward,
then falling and pushing for backward lift
as a child loves to do on a sunny afternoon
on the swing her father has made.

I see her sitting on the old swing
under the tree, no longer a child, dreaming.
I imagine her pulling and stretching, letting her legs
go as she leans back, sweating, pumping for height
over the wires and fences, into the torrid sky

as a young woman loves to do on a hot afternoon
till the ropes slacken and the rush of the air is stilled
and all movement ends down in the dust
on the strong swing nature has made.

Francis Edward Sparshott