'Cockles' & 'Shrimps'

Cockles

cockles with dad

in a white paper cone

varnished with vinegar

pepper

a toothpick

the sun

eaten one-by-one

with a grin

a gulp

and they're gone.

Shrimps

The boats would fill the bay

when the tide was right,

dragging nets

boilers alight

ready to cook their catch

a dance of colour, lolling

through the wash.

A shrimp waltz.

And all for a speck,

a clay-bed comma

filter-fed its flesh.

Nothing to behold

but a taste like nothing else,

a dirty little gem

worth its weight in gold.

(Part of the collection 'Every Day Is Like Sunday', an anthology of poetry about growing up in a northern British seaside town.)