Sling

In the garden’s quiet hush, a child swings
A humble sling of woven twine,
Its leather pouch a cradle for smooth stone,
Whispering promises of flight and aim.

The elastic sings—a taut, bright thread—
Launching pebbles like shy thoughts
That arc across the sun‑drenched air,
Landing soft where daisies bow.

Older hands recall the warrior’s sling,
A strip of hide, a steady swing,
Hurling fate with disciplined grace,
Echoing histories in every spin.

Now a fashioned strap, a sling bag,
Drapes across the shoulder, steady, true,
Carrying books, a lunch, a secret hope—
Modern kinship with the ancient throw.

Whether stone, or shot, or simple carry,
The sling endures—humble, versatile,
A loop of purpose, tension, release,
Binding past and present in its gentle arc.