Winkles.
I remember these shapes that rise above the sand,
Covered daily by the tide as it reaches for the land.
Those little crustaceans that grow around the rocks,
Like a five o’clock shadow along the beach to the docks.
No need for a hook a *** or a net,
Just pluck them by hand as they cling to the wet.
Popped in a bag and taken home to mam,
Boiled in a pan that was used to make jam.
Armed with a pin winked out of the shell,
Better tasting than the shops sell.
They were free, they were ours and they grew on our beach,
All at a height most children could reach.
No adults to call us in for tea,
Just sunny days down by the sea.
As I walk along the sand, I don’t see them anymore.
Those funny little things what were they called?
You know their name, I know you do.
If I see one I will remember to.