WriteByte

The Tyre Swing

Neither spoken out loud,

Or hidden in thought,

A father is angry,

A mother, distraught.

A child so young,

So pure and fresh,

Deserving no sorrow,

Least of all death.

Laughing at life’s four corners,

Pity alas in renewed,

A personality so complex,

An existence so subdued.

Perfection in its clearest form,

Crystals hang from a fern,

Paddocks of a successful farm,

In the heat they will burn.

Leaves fall in the breeze,

A tyre hangs by rope and swings,

Swaying with the small child,

Great happiness it brings.

Through all the seasons,

The snow and fog,

From un-polluted air,

That becomes thick with smog.

The tyre wears thin,

Roughly treated over long years,

So when it suddenly broke,

The old oak viewed many tears.

The little boy came crashing down,

It was not a delicate fall,

This poor boys parents,

Regret having the swing at all.