Contributor: Paul Tristram

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It was me, who tied the rope to it,
hacked off the barnacles
and polished in between each sail.
It was as heavy as my sister
carrying a Labrador.
I knew it better than the palms
of my hands
for they were always upon it.
It was made with a fault,
a thin fin of excess metal
on the inside of the left shoulder.
I worked diligently
filing away for three weeks
until you could safely
roll a plover’s egg
along its edge
and back again.
Then one day,
leaving the Isles of Scilly
it snagged upon some rocks.
It was quickly cut away
and while complaining
I was coldly informed
that there was a spare
anchor waiting below.
They never forgave my protest.
That was six months ago.
I’m to be hung in the morning
and the only thing that I regret
is being imprisoned so far
from the rum.


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Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories and sketches published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet.