the swing
somewhere near
my childhood
a swing hangs
from the branch
of an old tree
which leans
over the edge
of a cliff
often filled
with mist
an ancient house
hides nearby
only a few
family members
know of this
tree’s odd power
to transform
simple oscillation
into time travel
& space flight
Sounds like you have your own version of Dr Who’s blue box.
Enjoyed reading your poem.