The grass grew under the swing this year
It never did before.
A patch of brown clay always marked the spot
Where little feet had scuffed the burnt grass bare,
As to and fro,
And high to low,
The swing flew through
The luminous the air.
Now it dangles lifeless.
No hands reach out to grasp the blue sail-twine.
No squeals of wild delight assail the air.
The children are grown and gone.
The garden bare,
The grass growing there.
(c) eithne Reynolds