When the fishermen anchor down
and finish up their meal, their boat
snagging on each wave, they drown
the nets and watch them bloat
in the tug of the sea. Fingers cleave
to long-cold mugs and, having no
food left, the sailors retrieve,
as an afterthought, the prized tin
of marañuelas. Each man receives
the shape baked for him,
twisted neat. Warm with pride
he totters the boat’s rim,
each loving sway of the tide,
carrying his golden home-knot,
a fingerprint baked into the side.
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Author:
Ryan Robson-Bluer (
Offline) - Published: February 5th, 2023 05:46
- Comment from author about the poem: In the tiny seaside towns of Luanco and Candas, nestled into the north coast of Spain, the tradition of the marañuela still continues today. These little biscuits are baked into sailor's knots, each shape totally unique to the family that bake it, and when the fishermen go out to sea, there's no confusion over whose is whose, and every man has his own little relic of home. I think it's beautiful. The biscuits are also very tasty.
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