The Race :: By Deni Mathews

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The Race

Whispered lines of elm with focussed bow.

Blue sea, whipped white, stinging spray or salted coolness, beading down the sweating body.

From a distance each gig, a painted study, bright, joyful, bobbing, sun kissed.

The three rivers sparkle and tease but……

In truth each length hard won, stroke honed by blister, curse and tide.

The machine a creation of seven, each fights, depth, reach, catch, timing.

The boat driven to rise, the control of the run, slipping by in stealthy power.

The whispy flow of the crew belies the struggle, the captured mark.

The occasion masks the effort.

The joy an eclipse of the pain.

Deni Mathews – Cattewater

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