Swing Song

Winging it up, up, in the brace of a frame,
winging it, high as no-holds, into clear air,
scuffing the trodden turf where once a scare,
a hairy centipede, pedalled on too many feet
into my sandpit, stopped, then dived underneath –
so up, higher, disdaining the baby play
of oopla! oops-a-daisy! all that sandfall
raining down from handfuls into small hills,
I kicked against my invaded private ground –
flight, my aim: its rise, swipe, rebound –

till something earthy, bone-deep, snagged and jibbed –
a low-down thud that juddered the swing’s clean sweep,
shunting up from a fault somewhere at base
where one steel leg had lifted, enough to nudge
the swinging pendulum, and reach where I
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