The swing creaked, makeshift and lonesome;
rough twine lashing it to sturdy tree.
It gazed at the rambling house,
all wooden shutters and rattan chairs,
the very picture of tropical leisure.
The mansion, proud of its substantialness,
and consequence, lay suspended like the swing,
amidst straggling flora, sun-baked grass;
the gardeners’ hose spluttering and competing
with the twitter of birds, croak of frogs.
The jacaranda bloomed,
scattering indigo carpet on the mud.
Inside the house, rooms sprawled
hither and thither…
Enticing simian intruders into their sleepy corners,
or into the kitchen with its cornucopia of goodies.
They monkey around, jumping from tree branch
to tree branch, swinging and gibbering.
What divine hand fashioned this beguiling abode,
this enchanting Arcadia, I wonder….
To me, urban child, sadly accustomed
to traffic, crowds, chaos;
this was unaccustomed paradise.
My few days there stolen from my other life;
suspended, like the house, and the swing
in that bucolic other-world,
in that ethereal eternal summer.