Crabfishing

When we were young my brother and I crabfished

Along a great big stone wall

That blocked off a pond

From flowing with the river

On the end of our weighted crab lines

A chunk of fleshy mackerel

The smell was strong

So strong

We couldn’t think of anything else

We walked alongside the edge of the wall

Dropping our lines, letting them unroll

Till it hit the bottom

Of the pond

 

We didn’t have to wait long

The crabs were very hungry today

We could feel the weight of our lines

And guess quite accurately

How many crabs there were

 

One crab was okay

Two crabs, better

Three crabs, wow, quite a clump

Four crabs, How do they manage to all stay on like that?!

Five crabs and you’re a crabfisher god

 

We brought extra large sized buckets

With fresh water from the pond

So that the crabs had plenty of space to

breathe and maneuver

 

We could watch them for hours at a time

Different sized crabs

Two varities of colour

Green and orange underbellies

With a thick brown armour

Claws as big (or in some cases, bigger) than their bodies

All clamouring over eachother

Occasionally fighting for space

Breathing angry bubbles

 

When it got too cramped

Or if they were in there too long

We released them into an area

Where the others wouldn’t get to them

 

The other children made me question life

From a very early age

They’d catch crab after crab

Squeezing them all into a tiny little bucket

I feel sorry for the ones that were rammed in first

 

They had no way of breathing, or moving for that matter

All the while being crushed by the weight

Of crabs on top of them

 

When the bucket was full to the brim

The children

Emptied the buckets across the concrete wall

To find more than half were corpses

They were feasted on by seagulls

Broken open

Their bodies exposed to the sun

 

The lucky (or unlucky) crabs

That fled into the water

Were only to be caught again

By other children exacting the same process

 

The children, smiling without a care

Without remorse

Whinging to their parents

That they were bored and wanted to go home

The parents, unaffected

Held their childs hands

Walking away

 

 

 

 

Author: Jack Bennett

Born and raised in Torquay, England. 22 years old. Teeming with thoughts that need an outlet, working a full time job at his local supermarket. Unfortunately born a poet, he will most likely suffer from this contradiction most of his life.

6 thoughts on “Crabfishing”

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