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The Faded Garden Swing

If the flaked paint on the old swing 
could speak, it would tell stories of 
days long ago,
Of children's laughter and their bare, 
muddy feet, 
Of fireflies caught and imprisoned in 
empty jam jars, 
Like the fireflies, my memory flickers, 
trying to recall who lived across the 
street.

The faded swing’s rusty chains  creaked 
loudly under my weight, an old familiar
song, 
And the scent in the air from the aged 
honeysuckle, still going strong, 
An old familiar perfume of yesteryear,
At this moment, suspended between 
the then and now, time stands still.

Once the echoes of children’s giggles, 
now a silent yard, 
Images of scraped knees, loud cries
and a lemonade stall,
In the distance, the sound of an old 
church bell rings,
Here, on this faded garden swing, 
I sit in the past with the weight of 
what was and of what can never be 
again.

Now, shadows linger in silence,
Where children once soared with 
dreams,
Oh, faded swing, a keeper of stories 
of joy and pain,
You hold the essence where memories
 remain,
At last, I am home, in the place where 
time stands still.

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