The Tire Swing

He gazed across the wind swept meadow To a lone tree standing there Its jagged, silhouette surrendered ‘neath a sky more fiery embered Than His flaming hair, which crowned him then. But--- it was neither tree nor sky That stole his youthful eye. It was The tire swing Whispering, promising, “ With-me, you can fly ! ” The boy lept across the meadow Like a deer panting for water, Till at last He climbed aboard his dream. His round, black, holed Flying machine. Then, holding tight, and bending to and fro With all his might Began to drive, began to glide Against The sinking sun Till It was night outside Across the starry, littered sky Beneath the moon’s soft lullaby Ascending ever higher Make believing he’s a flyer, He smiles, As he tips a wing. He is an aviator. He is the sky king! And all because of one Old tire swing.