The Old Crab

Long have I languished under the weight
Of many-garlanded, barnicled time.
Every joint creaks like the wooden planks of a frigate
While the silence of the deep makes of me a sad mime.

My friends (there are only two) who have thus far won the war;
Who have run the natural gauntlet of predator and prey.
They too are slow and their shells can molt no more,
So they grow haggard with the stalagmite strain.

But one in particular, Coriander, his name,
Sported fronds of seaweed from his barnicled abode,
And after a time it seemed as if he wore a sargasso mane
Or tail of an exotic fish, to see how it flowed.

Coriander did not complain.
No creak or squeak did we hear.
Coriander did not feel pain.
The answer was ocean clear.

While we plodded dismally with an arthritic speed,
Coriander's sargassum plumage eased his burden,
And then we saw him float away by his weed
Like a bubble of air into the light above.

I then wept (for crustaceans can cry) to see him go;
Then painfully crept through the rocks to wonder how I will go.