Time Stands Still

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.