How long until you leave? A piece of string.

Whereas, sat here in the dark of

The old barn, I may as well be so much

Old rope.


Rough in the hands, beard bristle,

Somehow oiled, a smell like the years’ deep

White grey dust:

The same old yarn,

Asleep, a coiled dead snakeskin,



But perched as I am upon

One high timber, haunting the oak

And looking down, there might well

Be length enough in me for

One last drop:

One fierce grasp for the beam,

That sore, tender gasp for air;


That last rough kiss to your neck,

Length enough to send you off

With a final, fond farewell.



One thought on “Rope

  1. Bravo! Scarey tension yet optimistic. I enjoy the images and allusions and how the range of senses comes immediately to the reader. Vivid I thought and with a sense of place. Love, Gran

    Sent from my iPad


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