October
2006
Cockling
I dig hooked fingers
into the sand
that rasps against my skin,
and threatens at any moment
to bend my nails right back.
Drawing my rake fingers
through the grit
I ignore the bite of razor shells,
the scratch of shrimp about my wrists
and the hard weight of corrugated sand
pressing against the soles of my feet.
The harsh whisper of the marsh breeze
tries to tempt me away
with promises of samphire,
lavender and sea pinks,
but instead I live
through my burrowing fingertips,
searching for the rich weight,
that hard, whole rippled shape
of a Stooky Blue the colour of a bruise.
I memorise the feel of it in my hand,
rinse the black sand from it
in the shallow water,
then add it to my bulging jute basmati rice bag.
2 Responses to “Cockling”
hungry now….fat stukies, the colour of a bruise. your nails need trimmin claw paw x
It takes me right back to Holt Beach….really evocative. Georgie