Poetry

Hermit crab

The day is warm on my face, so I emerge from my home

to track down supplies. It shouldn’t be too bad, I can enjoy the breeze

and how the sun trickles on my limbs.

Scuttling along, intending to be content.

Do I really need my shell?

There’s nothing to bruise my soft body here–

whoosh.

Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh.

What is that? Those startling things

all herded in groups or alone with noses in black mirrors?

They don’t even see me.

Feet stomping, arms swinging, brows furrowed.

Blind to a little crab trying to find food and appreciate the air.

Better be getting home, before they extinguish me with their ignorance.

Poetry

Groundskeeper

We live in a world where everything

is on display, a constant waving of flags

we don’t even realise we’re holding.

And in it, all I want to do

is move away, find a quiet,

cosy area

and have it as my own personal space.

 

There are times when I start to succeed

and fit it with neat trellis

full of climbing roses and honeysuckle,

vibrant and sweet

in a way that doesn’t overload my brain.

 

Yet, inevitably, it seems,

there is always someone who trips and falls,

flattening the entire thing –

or worse, those who come charging in deliberately

and smash it to pieces

so small and sharp

that I have to start again from scratch.

 

But even in times when I’m standing in this mess of debris,

I always welcome the gentle call of a friend

who knows they need not ask to come in because they have a key,

yet always do so anyway.

 

They take my hand,

tenderly, respectfully

and help me sweep the mess away.