What the Cuttlefish Do
Who's the girl you saw on the beach?
Is she the girl for you?
The backs of her knees are marked with an H,
her breasts are a W.
You've taken her to a hot, bright dance,
to the cold cliffs in the rain.
You've laid your arm on her shoulders
and taken it off again.
You talked over coffee and biscuits,
you talked over cakes and tea,
and both of you knew you were going to do
what the cuttlefish do in the sea.
They have a faceful of feelers,
which gives them a worried air
and their bodies are bags of ocean,
with a skirt all round to steer.
They know how to change colour
and they know how to make love.
The female trembles underneath,
the male trembles above.
He's passed her a gobbet of pearl drops.
She's glued her eggs to a weed.
They swam off side by side and quietly died,
having planted the cuttlefish seed.
And you know that if you have to
there's a quiet hotel you can go
where you can tremble on top of her
and she can tremble below.
She has a W and an H
and a Y between her legs.
When you've read it all night you may answer it right -
you do it because of the eggs.
If you really really had to,
you would do it till you were both dead -
leave the embryo, like the cuttlefish do,
glued to the foot of the bed.
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