Cockles

We stood in trust on tidal bay

our youth laying fear to waste,

a-cockling was the sport of days

but never, ever, done in haste

.

As waters fell, we made advance

our small feet lightening mud

Trousers rolled on rubber boots

to cleave what once was flood

.

Lizzy, sister, sturdy picker

and me with giant’s bucket, faced

the steam of leaving banks in time

to join the local cockle race

.

We watched with keener eyes than most

for motes that pointed there

the smallest nuance, the bravest dash

that would bring our quarry near

.

Our dad said “there”, (he knew these things),

his childhood passing from

a time well spent in freedoms realms

and one that we take on

.

We dug the mazing, cloying sludge

For Scappies, Dawgs, and Jans

I preferred the Brownie chaps

Cooked in sea-glazed, floured pans

.

The hours ticked, and silently

we listened to the knell

of tiding clocks that struck the end

of hunting the barbarous

cockle shell

.