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Crabbing
A disturbance in the sand
betrayed their hide
and when prodded by a rake,
claws shot up
primed to latch onto
a careless finger or toe.
A big "bluey" had a fearsome
bite and seemed
to prefer to sacrifice a claw
rather than let go. Their grip
on the rake, though, was their
undoing, hanging on whilst
being lifted up then shaken
loose to fall helpless
into a floating tub.
By morning's end
the tub would be
a writhing fill of crabs
clawing to free themselves
from a hopeless fate.
It was a pathetic sight.
Hauled ashore, most
were still alive when Dad
and I got them home.
They wriggled and bubbled
in the damp bottom
of the metal tub.
I can remember the salty smell
of what I thought was fear
let out by their silent screams.
Their suffering seemed
too much to justify a feed.
Then I would think of Jesus
and the fish he caught
to expunge my childhood guilt.
Taken out and washed clean
they would be dropped
into a big iron pot and boiled
until they turned bright red,
the color of demons stoking
hellfire in a bible picture book.
Copyright ©
Paul Willason
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