The abandoned swing, marinated in birdsong and spring blossoms, was a picture perfect part of the scene.
The abandoned swing, as sentry soldier upon the hilltop, was ever ready to support any whom came. Forgotten though it was, it had strength still.
The abandoned swing was quite still upon its ropes, as if it was enjoying a meditative dream.
The abandoned swing had a musical creak, as if in all this time it had become both entertainer and audience.
The swing had a seat that reminded me of the beach, of the wood that had become so beautiful for its time at sea, travelling with only the sun for company. I could see the grains that swirled in the way salt water does, and under the palm it was soft and smooth. I wondered for how long it had been alone in the wind, waiting, always waiting for the return of laughter and play, for the hostages of the tiny screens to be freed.
In the storms I imagine a ghostly passenger ebbing back and forth on that old swing, forwards, backwards, forwards, backwards - one abandoned by matter, one forgotten in time. Yet in my daydreams I varnish that old seat and make it the smallest of benches in my flower garden, chains removed for good.
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