The Cockle Pickers

It warms the cockles of the heart, Morecambe Bay. Kiss me Quick The summer bus- trip- tourist paradise. Even in winter, company reps tuck in To Cumberland sausage, Herdwick mutton Saltmarsh lamb and Windermere char In the warm Victorian trappings of creaky hotels Sticky toffee puddings tighten the buckle Lyth Valley damson jam, melts on the scone Twinings tea sends thin curls from the pot. Out on the fickle sands of the wintry bay Chinese cockle pickers, from red earthed paddy fields In Fujian province, are up to their necks In raging tides and quicksands Millions of gallons of sea exact death duties Their gang-master, Lin Liang Ran, He of the snakes-head clan Has washed his hands of them This inconvenient hiccup to his business. After the tide of media frenzy recedes, Half across the world a wife will weep Over her husband’s plastic good luck charm Salt encrusted by sea and human tears