The Swing
(for Sarah, thanks for some beautiful mornings)
It was the only swing in the park that didn’t grate
as you swang on it,
iron rasping angrily against iron.
This one felt the edge,
the seat vibrating slightly as you swing,
but silently, oil apparently doing its job.
You loved me pushing you,
higher each time,
feeling a desire to fly
and be safe at the same time.
Then I’d put you on my lap,
on the swing, with my arms wrapped
protectively around you.
We had ten minutes at least,
maybe half an hour, to wait.
The preschool would then open
and we’d each go about our day,
you giggling and playing with toddlers
that were never quite as cute as you,
while I went to war in my office.
We would swing gently,
hardly even leaving the ground,
you would silently savour the moment.
Then I would sing the song,
changed a little from the one Banjo wrote.
waltzing my Sarah, waltzing my Sarah
won’t you come a waltzing my Sarah with me
And you did.
Peter Cartwright
October 2015
