Zachary Mcclure Poet Narrative

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.

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