The Lonely Swing

The flaky shards of peeling paint stab in multiple directions. Rusty metal hangs the way it has for so many years. Once proud and gleaming, now weakening under the unyielding force of gravity, tired and old. Rubber, beaten down by the relentless rain hangs limply from the chains. And then, in a matter of seconds, in the swift motion as the screaming squeak of the rust-ridden chains, it is brought to life. Laughter erupts from the child’s mouth as she is pushed higher and higher, tapping her toes on the clouds. Her little fingers curl around the cold metal, passing on her warmth and colour. Mother finds the place where so many other protecting hands have pushed. “Higher!” The rust shrieks with her voice, almost bird-like.

As she soars, more and more of the stretch of river in the distance is revealed. Patches of red, yellow, white, and green bloom all around. And pink. So much pink! Just like the dainty flush in her cheeks.

Bounding down the grass on the hill opposite, a collie catches the attention of her pale blue eyes. She smiles at all the beauty before her as the shrieking metal sends her on and on, flying through the air.

Then, coming to a startling stop with the help of mother, the rust lets out an almighty cry. All too soon they are gone, and left dangling in the delicate breeze, is the collection of metal and rubber.

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