The Cockle Pickers Poem by Sheena Blackhall

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