The broken swing

At the end of the wilderness
There is a broken swing
Swaying gently
From a breeze so faintly
The tattered rope begins to sing

The aged old oak
Supported it for years
With withered limbs
And occasional trims
It stays and hears

Overgrown foxgloves
And meandering wild ivy
Twist around
Without a sound
They crawl across lively

The quiet harvest mouse
Accompanied by a squeak
The swing sways
On many days
The simple land week by week

This beautiful place
For freedom of nature
Lives and grows
Through sun and through snows
But does it have a welcome future?

How long will this last,
Can this land live on?
Will the plants survive
Will the oak be alive
Will the swing be swung upon?