Richard Dowling

Boots that slap the soggy sand
As shovels poke and tease
For clams squished warm inside the mud
Brave sucklings from the sea

Hands shoved hard into the slime
Where fingers grip and pull
See how the women strip the beach
Until their sacks are full

Husbands sail on distant ships
Some never to return
And as the women rake the clay
Their empty bellies burn

Plates wiped clean with chunks of bread
Lips are smacked and smiled
The clams a little bland perhaps
We won´t be back a while.

No, no, no, we won´t be back a while.