The Cockle Picker’s Wife
She hangs her blacks
on a washing line at the back
of a washed up beach.
The tide has left its mark
on the promenade:
offerings of seaweed,
cracked mussels, softened glass.
Gulls feed from her hands,
oystercatchers land
on her head.
She keeps cockles in her bed,
picks them by night under moonlight.
At her call the heart-shape shells
rise from sands.
Their rib mouths yawn,
part under her touch.
Her home is a haven for molluscs.
Daily she fills, from the Firth,
a bath and lies with them, skin
smooth as pebbles.
A black rock under green waves;
the waters flow over her head.
