Frosted breath in a Transit van
on the M6 motorway
then stumbling out to work this field
of silver, brown and grey
Scattered out across the bay
where the cockle is free to take
bent double to pick from the sodden sand
what yields to the cockler’s rake
Read the sky and tides of winter days
and nature cedes a living
but if cold and hunger numb the mind
natures not for giving
The Silk Road didn’t reach this sea
no west bound caravan
of jade or gold or ivory
but vans filled with hands
to scour the mud
The ebb seems slow to drain the land
through curves and cuts in the bay
but the rush of the flood across the sand
will take their breath away
In Spanish soup the flavour is sweet
belly full, la cuenta paid
easy with wine and this Morecambe meat
23 guests dead.
A handshake sealed the trade
cheap labour plus profit slice
for young Chinese laid out to dry
the cockle’s price
The Silk Road didn't reach this sea
and no fair trading plan
sends cockles off to Holland
brings them in a Transit van
to scour the mud
Fingers point to lay the blame
gangmaster deemed the man
who tempted them to tease the tide
for a bed and cash in hand
Knowing neither tide nor time
wait for woman or for man
a cunning sea took these lives
and washed the guilty hands
The Silk Road didn’t reach this sea
no west bound caravan
of jade or gold or ivory
brought these children of Fujian
to scour the mud
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Your ballad-like evocation is spot on. Fujian produces more undocumented migrants than any other Chinese province, so that detail has an authentic ring.