No longer do I hear
the laughter of children
nor the pattering of little feet
racing to play with me
No longer do I feel
the warmth of little bums
as they wriggle to find comfort
on my wooden lap
nor the squeeze of little hands
grasping my ropes as I carry them
up and up and up
I wonder if I still exist in their minds
Do they remember our time together?
Maybe not. For I have been left
left to rot in rain
left to bleach in sunlight
I fear no one remembers me
My only company, these sunflowers
they chatter incessantly
bobbing their oversized heads in summer breezes
I don’t speak their language
therefore I am still lonely
lonely in a field of yellow happiness
I long for a child’s touch
So here I am
a lonely lowly wooden swing
waiting for a child, any child
to play with me