Turn of the Iron Wheel

I followed the stone towpath down to the canal lock. A thick cast-iron winch wheel stood locked above the sluice gate, encrusted in dark river spray. Hmph. Tall. Rigid. I did not walk past. I stepped up onto the wet timber planking and gripped the spokes with both hands. Grunt! I threw my weight downward. The rusted teeth of the gear screeched, groaning against the heavy iron housing before giving an inch. The gate lifted. A frothing rush of river water surged beneath the timber, churning white foam against the damp stones. I held the spoke steady, letting the cold spray wash over my shell.