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For the Ropewalk |
Imagine. Returning from the river, Rope-makers can detect faint melodies… The notes float on the air. They rise and cease And then begin again. A ghostly shiver - Some kind of premonition - quietens all. But then the usual working pace resumes: Hands turn to sisal and manila, combs Tease out the waste, twines stretch and muscles pull. In Ropery Hall, gathered from near and far An audience sits patiently and Waits for musicians tuning guitars, hands Unsullied by the rough handshake of tar. The lights go down. All’s quiet. Music. These now The only strings and cords the building knows. ©The contents of this page are copyright protected.
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