Columns of beaten Crustacea, we shift across hot sand
carrying each one pinch determination to abandon land
throw anxious glances back to check we’re unobserved
in our last gasp endeavour to stage a smooth return.
Curved carapaces arching toward the pulling tide
cracked pincers raised, we dance our sidewards glide
treading warily, alien slapping waves in this aftermath
of countless million years without the saline bath.
Yet as murk and weed permeate marks of failure and despair
we leave the crooked path as if we were never there.