Cathy Whitfield

Oystercatchers

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.

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About sunnydunny

Poet, publisher, gardener
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