27. Oct, 2019

The Swings

'The Swings', then,
Was a wild place.
I played with children
From the back to backs
And the tenement flats
Below,
Wallpaper peeling round
Sagging cobbled yards
Seen through open doors
Where people passed by
Careless of the view.
They lived there
But that was all.
We swarmed the roundabout
Like boarding pirates.
Cheek by jowl with
Clothes in holes
And dirty knees,
Toughness already gripped
Between their teeth,
The game was danger.
Outriders spun the metal cone
Faster and faster.
We stood on the wooden seats
Holding cold iron struts
Then took turns to jump down
To the middle,
Where the spinning top
Was swung in to crash at the pole
and you,
While you guessed the moment
To slither out and under
Before your body was crushed
Or your head bashed in.
Then it was your go to spin.
It was always busy there then,
Our thirst quenched
By the spouts of the mottled marble
Drinking fountain,
Tasting of its chained metal cups.
We'd leave swings wrapped round the top
By those who could swoop them over
Full circle
And the slide polished bright,
Our journeys drying off
The rain on it
And picking up the grit
From our shoes.
The swings are still there
With a roundabout of sorts.
There are wobbly things on springs
Instead of a lethal seesaw to
Smash up and down
With several on each end.
But it's not busy now,
Having become, I suspect, too tame.
And besides,
All the houses and people have changed.

Ruth Enright