Swing

On the old wooden swing at the park’s quiet corner,
the seat hums a soft, familiar groan—
a lullaby in creaking timbers, the kind that fills the quiet Sunday mornings,
as the breeze drifts past the hedgerows and the scent of fresh-cut grass lingers in the air.

Each swing takes a push from a hopeful child’s hand,
together their spirits rising in synchrony,
the arc of the swing a painting of light and motion—
a fleeting red‑gold swirl against the blue, the colour of hope.

The rhythm of the swing is a whispered secret,
a gentle reminder that the slow, steady beat of a heart can still sway the world,
just as a simple wooden seat can turn a moment into a memory that endures.