Out on the sands by Nick McGAughey

Out on the Sands,                                                                                                             
the harvest was high-tide, breaking backs
at low ebb, wily to the black quicksand.
Jam-pot candles shepherd the sherpas 
sleeping on the shelly greens along the dark..


Side-saddle, our shawled queens
pick their path from bolster to beds,
pixies bowed to the brunt of the wind,
cram and scrap still warm from the Rayburn,
their sieves as big as sombreros.


Bent triple, they scrape, draw, scrabble and pile
the nutty sludge, spitting, to shake and swivel, 
then swirl in pill and pit. 
From pail to sacks and slumped panniers
on the tide-bent backs of steeds
who sure-hoove over
the logged pools and switchback currents,
to dunes of cockles
cooked in gypsy-boilers
on the flat by the Ship.


This world is born, 
with birds singing happy as anything. 
Under the foundry light
like a Bethlehem star, the dawn opens
with fluted shells gaping in the steam-spit                         
and broth of their bubbling sea..
Scalded and shelled, seared and rinsed, riddled
soft meats, jewel through mesh tombolas,
to be spread on plank-woods to cool.


Panning for gold in the Penclawdd Klondike;
these nuggets of the sands,
gold as yolks packing the
cheeks of the blind weaver’s baskets,
brim-full and seaward, to be sailed
with starched linens,
spread like altars for the Swansea-bound train.


A tapestry of gatherers, woven in red and black,
freighted with cockle-meat stwcs on their bonnets 
and a basket in each claw; armed
for market and the thresholds 
of their patches, where each steeled step 
is carved in stone.




Pixies : bonnet
Cram and scrap : carved knife and rake.
Stwc : basket worn on head.o edit.Out on the Sands,                                                                                                             
the harvest was high-tide, breaking backs
at low ebb, wily to the black quicksand.
Jam-pot candles shepherd the sherpas 
sleeping on the shelly greens along the dark..


Side-saddle, our shawled queens
pick their path from bolster to beds,
pixies bowed to the brunt of the wind,
cram and scrap still warm from the Rayburn,
their sieves as big as sombreros.


Bent triple, they scrape, draw, scrabble and pile
the nutty sludge, spitting, to shake and swivel, 
then swirl in pill and pit. 
From pail to sacks and slumped panniers
on the tide-bent backs of steeds
who sure-hoove over
the logged pools and switchback currents,
to dunes of cockles
cooked in gypsy-boilers
on the flat by the Ship.


This world is born, 
with birds singing happy as anything. 
Under the foundry light
like a Bethlehem star, the dawn opens
with fluted shells gaping in the steam-spit                         
and broth of their bubbling sea..
Scalded and shelled, seared and rinsed, riddled
soft meats, jewel through mesh tombolas,
to be spread on plank-woods to cool.


Panning for gold in the Penclawdd Klondike;
these nuggets of the sands,
gold as yolks packing the
cheeks of the blind weaver’s baskets,
brim-full and seaward, to be sailed
with starched linens,
spread like altars for the Swansea-bound train.


A tapestry of gatherers, woven in red and black,
freighted with cockle-meat stwcs on their bonnets 
and a basket in each claw; armed
for market and the thresholds 
of their patches, where each steeled step 
is carved in stone.




Pixies : bonnet
Cram and scrap : carved knife and rake.
Stwc : basket worn on head.