The Swing


The Swing

The dry leaves of autumn fall
blanketing the rolling hills
in a carpet of crimson and gold.
On a knotted old swing
hung from a tree in the park
she lazily swung to and fro
like the pendulum on the grandfather clock
that stands at home in the hall.
Her feet scuffed in the warm brown earth.
Her head was lost in the clouds.
As I stood behind an ancient elm
quietly  watching her,
I thought of how young she looked
and how small
For just one moment
I longed to step inside her mind,
to see the world as it appeared
only through her eyes.
Was it memories or was it dreams
that coaxed that serene little smile
to her face,
a revelation of such innocence and openness
that in this unguarded moment
left her soul exposed.
Her eyes raised to mine and connected
in a bond of understanding.
Unvoiced, unspoken, yet recognized by both
the truth...
Little girls never grow old!!
And I said a silent prayer
that someday I too
at the age of 72
would find grace
on a swing in the park.


ęD.W.Rickard 1998