Note To Self

Crab Sex

Some years ago,
we dug two crabs out of the sand,
sat in puzzlement at their conjoined state,
their shells as green as our naivety.

It was spring
and the high tides
swallowed up
the whole beach that day.
A blanket of foam
coveted our friends the crustaceans.
A carpet of seaweed threatened to push over us with clumsier limbs.


Some years ago,
Our plastic spade struck out
on cold shells,
forcing coitus interruptus
of the inside-out world.

Two pairs of eyes,
one on top,
the other underneath
and looking in our direction
suddenly disembodied,
in the chilling sea breeze.


We blushed deeply upon realising our mistake
but to bury them again seemed even ruder...

So, we remained static voyeurs
in a sandy boudoir
and puzzled over what to say
to those crabs next.

Some years ago,
what to say
to those crabs,
was the most important decision
we had to make.

Today,
stood in a different milieu of sands
as far as the occident carries,
single crabs scold my mottled toes.

I step back and, squelching,
think;
how could we have left things so undecided?