The Swing

This swing,
That has hung here forever.

I bend my knees and plant my foot
On the mosaic tiles, I kick
And rise higher.

The wind rushes through the window grills
With a fleeting insistence; Hits the face
With nostalgia of hot, powerless summer nights.

This flight-
As my hands reach for the ceiling fan-
The same moment, lived again;
Yet never before, as a four-o-clock
Falls slant on a  four-legged teak chair.

The effervescent, the grotesque world
Of colourless television, Of radios,
Of phones with circular dials,
Of careless dreams, Of acting,
Of heroics, Of the days
you went higher than the previous.

The growth,
Daydreams of endless flight,
To the moon, the planets,
To the distant places of kings,
Demons, barbarians and anglophiles.

This swing,
It is here. The same chains that creak.
The blunt triangles and rectangles,
The swan like hook strung through
The circular holders, held by the tension,
Since your granddad told you about it.

The candle lit shadows, of games,
Of incorrigible numbers, Of fastidious
ambitions, of marginal reverences,
Of confidence and leaps.

The furniture breaks, the walls change,
The swing, firm without dust, remains.

I kick again.

The Light Shines The Brightest