Empty Swings at Midnight

The streetlight spills its sickly yellow light,

across the empty swings, a lonely sight.

No shrieks, no laughter, just the silent air,

and chains that creak, as if a ghost were there.

The slide, a metal tongue, so cold and steep,

holds secrets that the silent shadows keep.

A plastic horse, unridden, stares ahead,

a tiny graveyard where all joy is dead.

It's strange, this space, designed for bright loud play,

so desolate when children go away.

A chill runs through me, something not of wind,

a quiet ending that can't be unpinned.