KING OF SWING

On a visit to Dorset early last summer we came upon a swing beneath a tree in a meadow of the sort you only find in England: a yellow and pink counterpane of wild flowers stretching as far as the eye could see.
I treated myself to a few moments rocking back and forth in a relatively sedate manner as befits a member of the older generation and thought back fondly to the headstrong way I rode swings when I was fearless and young. 

  
  THE SWING 

As we launch out, the air feels clean,
the wooden swing, a pendulum
divining or recording time,
as sunlight stabs, pure platinum,
through woodland chestnut, cedar, lime,
into our playground, softly green.

It takes our joint weight on taut ropes
as we, in tandem, drive it on,
gathering momentum, we rise:
you grip the seat I brace upon
with boots, knees, adolescent thighs
and boundless, adolescent hopes.

The swing is like a storm-tossed boat,
the wood’s a bold kaleidoscope
of light, leaf patterns, soaring dreams.
I shout within the cradle-ropes,
the sound extinguishing your screams.
Free from confining earth, we float.