The Swing

It is beautifully warm today, a real Summer’s day with the hot African sun blistering through already, despite it being only 7 am when I leave home for Real Work. I take off the little cardigan I’d put on, being unsure of what today would bring after yesterday’s chilliness and rain. I won’t be needing it today.

On my way to work in a small side street that we take to avoid the traffic is a swing. It hangs on the branch of a huge, gracious tree, above a patch of green grass, facing the road. It is one of those children’s drawing swings – a wooden plank with rope handles. They’re particularly long rope handles, tied to a big branch high up in the tree.

I am fascinated by the swing. I see it each morning, sitting there, quite still, watching the traffic drive by. It moves slightly if it is windy. I can sometimes see children sitting on it, even though they're not there so early. I guess it's just the imprint of the ones who use it when I'm not there. When it swings, it’ll swing right out into the road and I wonder if it’s high enough to be above the cars?

I hope so.