Several sweet white potter cups were painted blue, Shelved and bought with simple, copper pennies. A birthday paused As box undone, crab-claws toe-tip in painted lacquer- Around and around in triumphant guises, in Cramped feet stands a whitish space, most milky tea Or buttered brandy sit and spin like yesteryear, that Furnish all table tops with pinkish, oval flowers, while Sucking sourly on hot rock gems, ten turns it takes For pity stomach to wholly, coldly blanch it. Because candy sticks, obstinate, the crabs grow rough, The crabs grow angry; and nought in time can they be tamed, The scuttling scooting friend- Of sand or hall, of sea and air, lacing meats washed and beaten Before the Sunday turf. A golden verge of wispy ivory, Where watery lapping chases funny at their ruby tails. Burning up, Becoming crusted, salt sheaves leave their thin bird marches, Up and over, In a tunnelled wind that shook a swallow, Off he went and met that crab-kin, smiling, saying: “Sweetness, not my favourite taste.” while tumbling through The cherry sky. Repeating in a rocking stumble, Mouths are pleased before the crab-kin. They stick the swallow, as gulp they do at sickly, maudlin candy. But ever before the river Knocked, they all knew soft and resolute; that through the shelves House crusted kingdoms, they wait in endless mortuary, For days that spit the coated shells of glossy, hardened, candy, And days were swallows, seagulls come, and taste that sweetness Anyway.
© copyright Eve Redwater 2012