The Garden Swing

And still it hangs, the garden swing,
Beneath the ancient elm.
Its weather-frayed rope, knotted with memories
Of summers past and childhood days.
I sit awhile to reminisce,
And inhale the sweet perfumed air,
As the splintered seat protests
With groaning creaks of age.
Lemon trumpets nod their heads
Lost in forgotten borders,
Overcrowded with creeping greens
And twisting browns.
Cloud-shadows slink across the lawn,
Patterning with jigsaw shapes,
Highlighting bejewelled leaves
Decorated with silver beads;
A gift left from a recent shower.
Budding twigs reach for the cyan sky,
As if pointing to a higher power,
As grumbling crows take flight
Like black smudges on a canvas;
Flitting and swirling on mild zephyrs.
And daisies gather to gossip and sway,
Waiting for tiny fingers to pluck and thread
Their stems, into chains of gold and white.