Crab Fishing
Tiny monster, blanketed in the earth’s skin;
the spirit of Achilles lives in you.
You are a funny thing to fear.
I remember the sun soaked breezes of Brownsea
where little fires jumped from branch to branch.
Our assaults were always fruitful there.
Children have no mercy. We hunted eagerly,
pulling you from the deep, calculated and slow.
How we squealed at your shadows in the water.
Once captured, we gazed beadily at you
scrabbling at the plastic walls.
Soon we’d hold an army in our bucket.
When we tired of our labour,
desiring sandwiches and dry clothes,
we turned from soldiers to emperors.
Turning the bucket onto the deck,
like toying gods we watched you race away,
fleeing back to the salt from whence you came.
I wish I could have seen you floating down,
parachuting into the dark as living meteors.
When I see you now, I smile at the memory of those days.
How cruel we were then in our love;
and still I yearn to fish again,
reaching down into the sandy unknown.
…
Rachel Bruce is a poet based in London. Her work has appeared in The Telegraph, Eye Flash Poetry, The Daily Drunk, Hencroft Hub, and Atrium among others. Find her on Twitter @still_emo.
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