hemp swells
in the warm mist,
clenching knots
like splintered fists,
as i take a marlin spike
to their grip.
.
there is a moment
before tying off
when two arms carry
the full weight of the yard,
chant thundering
with the crack
as rope whips deck.
.
and you don’t let go
or let them know
the fear
of feable breath,
as jellies
in the water below
kiss sunlit depths
with comb rows,
in a lazy spin and flow.
.
i ache to climb,
to soar,
laughter of gulls
no more,
as i cut away
all lines
that bind.
.
© M.G. Iannucci 2017
Photo: Belaying Pins by Marcus Isidro, Brasil
Beautifully penned.
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Thank you
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They have a smell all their own these boat sized ropes.
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They do! Hemp, manilla, oak, and tar…wonderful scents. Thank you, Elaine for noticing with me.☺
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An excellently crafted description creating a lovely metaphor
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Thank you, Derrick. I used to haul lines, more than metaphor I guess.
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