Rope

Rope.

The mother brushes her daughter’s hair,

 teases the tangles

 until

knots turn to soft,  smooth locks, shining  golden.

Each single hair so fragile, could easily be pulled 

from its follicle,

effortlessly snapped.

Slowly, deliberately, she divides the whole in three 

equal parts

brush on autopilot with every stroke.

She takes the separate tresses 

 plaits them together

one over the other  - delicately - and

she remembers

she remembers the spray of the sea on her face, 

the yacht, the rope,

her father,

his strong hands - power of nature contained there-

sails swinging this way then that in the sway-

working together against the elements,

his patience unending - no let up till the thick rope is secured
 firmly to the quay.
He was her life pulse, threads to her hope - 
merciful, kind- her comfort, 
her link to the future which now has a sad space

 where he is no more.

She weaves the plait into a coil and when finished

lays her hands on her daughter’s 
shoulders 
and sighs .