Cockle Pickers Poem by Margaret O Driscoll

Their work dictated by the tides
Some days they picked at first light
Baskets strapped to their shoulders

In blazing sun or blinding rain
As long as the tide was out
As long as there was light

Stooping low to the sands
Eyes scanning as they moved
Picking cockles from ancient beds

Like their ancestors before
They raced against the tide
To reap the bounty of the bay

Even as the incoming tide
Lapped over their feet, they picked
Relenting only when it rose too high

They hauled their dripping harvest
Bent, tired, weak
Drenched to the skin