The Swing Poem by Paul Reed

The bare patch
Of dried mud under the swing
Where feet used to brush and scrub
In pendulumic abandon
Is grown over now,
Gone;

I prepared the ground with care
And sewed the seed
Raking it in like scraping away yesterday
The gnarly handle of the rake
Like time in my hands,
Gone;

Why did I want fresh grass?
To replace the memory
Like it never existed
Never happened
Never heard the laughter
Of contented days
Gone.