The Crab
The storm had loosened
the crabs last desperate grip
and lifted it up
on a wave,
flung it onto rocks to let
it die on its back.
I looked at it with pity,
picked it up and set it down,
right way up. In death,
its claws still held strands
of bright green weed,
the shell bore a fatal crack.
In two minds, I left it there
rather than put it back
into the sea.
Soon, two seagulls squabbled
over its carcass. For me,
the crab was a niggling
reminder of mortality,
to the seagulls, a meal
gifted by serendipity.
Copyright © Paul Willason | Year Posted 2024
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