Cardigan Bay
As a boy I wondered
about the jigsaw
strewn across the sand.
The parts are taken
by the waves, dad said.
Salted and cleaned.
I pictured the crab –
pink, hard and quick
to anger, attacking
with a snapping claw.
This flat, wet beach
was a world to hunt.
It scurried sideways
with eyes on stalks
for watchfulness.
It was an ancient alien.
Will it be made
whole again?
I asked.
Phil Wood works in a statistics office. He enjoys working with numbers and words. His poems can be found in various publications including: Clear Poetry, The Lampeter Review, The Black Sheep Journal, Dactyl Zine, and London Grip.