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.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem