Periwinkles

by Adam Wyeth

We skirt the edges
of the cove, scouring
crags at low tide,

combing back seaweed hair
braided with beads.
Up to our ankles

in rockpool–underworlds,
dark marbled–clusters,
olive–coloured jumbos

rise to the top,
blue–black backs
plonk into buckets, squelch

between fingers and thumbs
recoiling into shells
like tiny poems in their hidden worlds.

We lug a brimming bucket
back home and fill a pan,
watch them toil and bubble.

A sea–tanged steamed–wreathe
breathes its last. I fill a bowl
and with a pin open the doors

of their water–world,
picking out slimy whorls
doused in virgin olive oil,

washed down with white wine,
la petit mort de mer,
a little death at a time.