The Swing
The swing was picked up for the boys,
for the here-and-here-to-stay
and only she knew why it was
I dug so solemnly
I spread the feet two yards apart
and hammered down the pegs
filled up the holes and stamped the dirt
around its skinny legs
I hung the rope up in the air
and fixed the yellow seat
then stood back that I might admire
my handiwork complete
and saw within its frail trapeze
the child that would not come
of what we knew had two more days
before we sent it home
I know that there is nothing here
no venue and no host
but the honest fulcrum of the hour
that engineers our ghost
the bright sweep of its radar-arc
is all the human dream
handing us from dark to dark
like a rope over a stream
But for all the coldness of my creed
and for all those I denied
for all the others she had freed
like arrows from her side
for all the child was barely here
and for all that we were over
I could not square the ghosts we are
with those that we deliver
I gave the empty seat a push
and nothing made a sound
and swung between two skies to brush
her feet upon the ground
This poem was taken from Don Paterson's new poem collection entitled "Rain".
