Fifty Bushel Blue Crabs

The waves break over the bow
The wind drys salt across my face
The rain beats on the canopy
We use the lightening to keep pace

Back and forth and up and down
And yet I somehow have no fear
I wrap an arm around the winder
As my crafty Captain stears

The nettles have all gone
But the Blue Crabs fill the box
They all grab hold of each other
The culler hates each coming pot

But I keep pushing down the lever
Make sure the winder never stops
To catch fifty bushel Blue Crabs
And load the top with pots

When the day is over
With my shirt pinned to my chest
As the Captain hands me money
This day when others choose to rest

And I smell of salty water
Which washed away the smell of fish
There is nothing else I love to do
And nothing else for which I wish

by Stephen Martin II

Comments (1)

Stephen Amazing poetic style here, well done