Autobiography

Following on from the previous poem in this autobiographical sequence, this one is about that swing in the secret, forgotten part of the neighbour's garden. I wrote it quite a long time ago and am pleased to say that I see no pressing need to edit it now.


The Child on the Swing

Eyes closed, backward, forward,
backward ,forward
Sun warmed face and hands
Hypnotic rhythm

Traffic noises turn to surf
Breaking on golden sand
Mother's washing machine
A circling aircraft

Creaking chains, the crack
Of salt stained timbers,
As quicksilver waves
Propel the boat shorewards,

Towards the land,
Where it beaches,
And he wakes,
And rubs his eyes,
And runs indoors
For lemonade.