Soft Shelled

As I drive the thread thin
(traffic jam avoiding)
lane towards the office,
the white topped cow parsley
and summer grass foam around
the wheels of my silver car.

Unexpectedly, a tiny spit of land
appears behind the blue sea’d
bay in front of me;
the salty waters beckon
offering tranquillity and absolution –
the possibility of redemption.

In my reverie I stand naked
on the end of the harbour;
ignoring the fishermen
I dive head first through
the shoals of silver fishes
and sink, saturated and stinking.

I come to rest on the sand and,
soft shelled crab like,
wave my limbs around violently
until I am safe under the golden grains
and all that the plankton can see
are ten tiny coral-pink toes.

With my soft underbelly hidden
from the harpoons and
vicious beaked gulls
I lie, with the sand filling my
eye-ses and ear-ses and noses,
cool in the davy-jones-depths.

A bird drifts malevolently
over my hiding place
to rest on the spit of land,
revealing my reverie
to be a thin, black telephone cable
framing a cold, blue sky.

No sea.
No sand.
No safety.

I can still feel the harpoons
swimming around me, though.