In the tempest something forms
And sheltered by its shell it warms
An idea that weathers all the storms
And the changes of its mind
The naked crab runs down the dunes
Its death or safety decided soon
Either claw or beak will bring its doom
Or else shelter it must find.
Her voice speaks and doesn’t quaver
The hazy vastness does not faze her
She throws herself upon its favour
And it replies to her in kind.
And though she walks the bed alone
Like a hermit crab without a home
She reaches in and makes her own
In the depths of her own mind.
For her the open sea to dare
Beyond no shell for her to wear
Moving on, abandoning her care
For the home she left behind.
-Ewan Green 2012