A poem by Zach McClure

He gazed across
The wind-swept meadow
To a lone tree
Standing there

Its jagged, silhouette
Surrendered ‘neath
A sky more firey embered
Than his flaming hair
Which crowned him then

But it was neither tree nor sky
That stole his youthful eye.
It was the tire swing
Whispering, promising,
“With-me, you can fly!”

The boy lept across the meadow
Like a deer panting for water,
Till at last
He climbed aboard his dream.
His round, black, holed
Flying machine.

Then, holding tight,
And bending to and fro
With all his might
Began to drive
Began to glide against
The sinking sun
Till it was night outside

Across the starry littered sky
Beneath the moon’s soft lullaby
Ascending ever higher
Make believing
He’s a flyer,
He smiles,
As he tips a wing.
He is an aviator.
He is the sky king!
And all because of one,
Old tire swing.