They’re commoner now. Since the crash
you see them flocking together,
demanding their rights. ‘Me, me, me!’
But these sharp-suited opportunists
have come down in the world.
See those bloodshot eyes?
That’s from slumming it with the hoi-polloi,
grubbing for existence, turning over rocks
to see what crawls out. They’re forced to live
on a diet of worms when what they crave
is the salt slip of shellfish.
But there’s not an oyster to be had.
‘Not a single fucking oyster!’
Copyright © Cathy Whitfield 2017
I am a writer who lives in Scotland, close to both mountains and sea.