The Old Rope Swing Poem by Sidi Mahtrow

Drifting down the river
Going where the current takes you
Away from the snags and rocks
Over the deep cool pools
Where the fish lay quietly
Waiting for the smaller fry.

Time passes slowly by
With the clouds overhead
Drifting slowly until they too are gone
Only blue sky remains although
Through the trees only a glimpse
Is given before all is again in shadows.

Around the bend and on the far bank
A lone girl, maybe ten
Tends to the business of spooning
Sand from the tannin stained water
She looks up but
Seeing no one she recognizes
Returns to her task
Of looking for shark's teeth.

As the snaking river makes another grand
Loop and runs over a stretch of lime rock
Pools of deeper water formed by the current's erosion
Appear dark and foreboding
But not to anyone intent on swimming.

An old rope dangles
From the overhanging tree
The tree, shaped by
High waters of the past,
Its roots set firmly
In the mucky dirt.

Crude steps of assorted boards
Nailed to the trunk
Spaced for climbing
To a branch that seems to
Hang there as if by design.

And higher yet,
Placed there by someone
More venturesome than most,
Wrapped around and around
The massive trunk is the rope.

A manila rope black with
Ever present mold
Hangs listlessly not even
Moved by the slight breeze.

The rope carefully knotted
By an engineer
Who knew just what to do.
Small knots for a handhold
And at the bottom a massive knot
Tied back and forth on itself
To form a lump bigger than two fist.
Designed to be held between the legs
As one swings on the rope.
The end frayed or unraveled
By countless use.

At first the woods are silent
But soon the muted voices
From the high bank.
Some four or five,
The oldest maybe thirteen
And the youngest not more
Than eight or so.

Mindless chatter
As they beat the grass in front
To encourage any rattler
To find another place in the sun.

Backs glisten with sweat
Ringlets around the neck
Where dirt lodges in the wrinkles
Feet bare and toughened
An occasional sandspur
Can't penetrate the hard sole.
Cutoff jeans faded and worn.
Blond curly-tops speak
Of their English heritage.


Down the bank at the tree
They eye the dark water
Looking for the eyes and nostrils
Of the gator that some say
Is twelve feet long
He's master of this stretch of water
And keeps all others away
Making it a safe place to swim.
No other gator dare enter his territory,
The penalty is death.

The youngest boy jumps in
With a big splash
And the other watch to see
If it raises any interest down stream
It's as though they offered
Him to the gods
To see if all was well.

Satisfied the oldest climbs the tree
Reaching for the rope and
Gives it a push causing it to
Swing back and forth until
One of those on the ground
Can catch it.

The heaviest of the group
Tugs hard on the rope and
Kicks off from the bank
Swinging out over the languid water
Back and forth he goes each time gaining
A bit more momentum until he
At the peak of his swing over the river
is some ten feet or more in the air
Then he lets go and drops with a splash.

The rope swings back toward the bank
and another captures it
And repeats the process
Until the one in the tree
Who now has the rope.
Positioned on a gnarled knot
Readies for the most daring of leaps.
He kicks out and away from the branch
As if attempting to jump to the bank itself
But the rope describes a lazy circle
Taking him out and away
Until he is twenty feet
Or so from the bank
Maybe fifteen feet in the air.

Releasing the rope
He cannonballs into the river
Where the water
May be ten feet deep
At this time of year.

The water is now alive
With plunging bodies and
Sounds of splashing
Overwhelmed their voices
Raised higher and higher to be heard.

Up river, the small girl
With her bucket, shovel and screen
Comes swimming down
Toward the tree
No one speaks to her.
She crawls out onto the dirt bank
And adjust the straps
On her swimming suit.

Then, climbs the tree
To the gnarled knot
And exhibits a perfect dive
The boys are on the bank
Are waiting for her.

All climb the bank
And head for home.

It's time for dinner.
And the old rope hangs forlorn,
Waiting for another day.