Crab

Four crabs from the cold firth

alive for a shilling. The largest

reared in the pot, in spite of

the fierce water, but soon

we cracked his limbs with our teeth

and wheedled with spoons and fingers

for the last shreds of flesh

from the crannies of his briny body.

 

In that brittle maze

I found no features to remind me

of our brains, our livers

or our smooth bellies, yet doubtless

their functions were held by some part

of the paste of his cavities.

 

Spread, soup and risotto –

only the gills were rejected.

 

In the days we ate him

I did not forget

his moment on the floor

to amuse the baby, when she

gloated at the slow clash

of his last menace,

nor that shape which made me think

of a soft soldier

fried in the cockpit of a tank.

Angus Calder