Shell Island

Was an island that had risen up like a meteor
Encrusted alien vessel from the seabed, burst
From the depths entirely constructed, meshed
Together with broken shells, a handful of sand, sea
And foam running off its back; this was no place
For the bare feet of men, Mars, hot, ragged,
Serrated, peering out over the ocean, this was land
Reserved for the adventurous, at one end stood,
Slumping and sorry, a salt worn, concrete half tower,
On look-out awkwardly across the Persian Gulf
As if aware it was watching for nothing, accustomed
Only to lap of water, surfers on horizon, flying fish,
The Qatari flag, maroon washed near white, flapping
Self consciously from a bent stake in cement, a sign
That men had been here before; we were no pioneers,
But then, where were they now? We laid claim
As is the wont of explorers, we named it, scratched
Our own onto the walls of the periscope battlement.

The trek to sit on its collapsed, barnacled slabs,
Debating strategies over orange juice, batting
Away parched flies, was part of our expedition,
We would set off in flip flops, sunscreen slapped
In impenetrable, creamy dollops across our backs
By mothers who were much more engrossed
In conversation about how outrageous Mrs Porter
Had become, paralytic, at Al Nasr’s Friday barbecue.

We would leave you on blankets, surrounded
By your chatter and Tupperware that we’d return,
Heroic and famished, to open later, but for now
We were hunting miniature crabs, so small
That if you held them up, one eye shut, to the sun
You could see right through them, the size of half
Penny pieces, orange and black, we would find them
Under rocks in crater pools, communes of crabs busy
About their crab business until we plucked them up,
Hello and shaking hands with them as they hung
From pincers, nipping grip, fastened sharp to fingers,
We’d unhinge them from skin into buckets letting them
All get to know each other in the scooped ooze
Of seawater at the bottom, then carry them back,
Jubilant, for you to admire as we tore at hot sandwiches
Gripped by wet fingers until ready to re-house them
Under stones in the shallows, wondering if, sideways,
They’d ever make an epic crab journey home again.

Once, when the heat had bitten, desiccated, briny-eyed,
We seaweed toed our way back to find you sleeping,
Umbrella hugging, sunglasses askew, mouths open,
Rasping snores so we tipped our buckets, synchronised,
All their contents - splurrssh – onto your exposed bellies,
We bellowed laughing at a hundred tiny crabs dangling
From you as you squealed and flailed, nearly angry,
We were intrepid, we were colonists of the surface of Mars.