typewriter

Photo by John Williams (2009)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 





Rock Pool

my mother sleeping.
Stretched out
on a tartan blanket
in the marram grass

We hunt
in the shadow
of the dunes
antennae tuned
to her distress.

The crabs in the rock pool
are elusive.
They donít call them hermits
for nothing,
says my sister.

We are cunning.
Bide our time.
Wait for the ebb tide.
Walk the shoreline
scuffing up sand.

Dig a grave
for a seagull
with hollowed-out eyes.

Find a railway sleeper
torn from its tracks
Thrown like a doll
on the indifferent shore.

Dance barefoot along it.

Black splinters bristle
from the soles of my feet
like the spines of sea urchins.

The receding water
empties the rock pool.
There is nowhere to hide.

The bucket is soon
full of crabs.
They claw and bite.
The big ones climbing
on the small onesí backs.