COCKLES IN THE CHIPPY

COCKLES IN THE CHIPPY

They’ve cockles in the chippy,

The one called ‘Niko’s Plaice’

The serving girl is dippy,

And she’s got a spotty face.

The cockles peering out of the jar,

On the shelf nearly out of sight,

With mussels to the left of them

And ketchup to the right.

Does anyone actually buy these bottles?

I’ve never seen any being sold.

They’ve rusty lids and dust on top,

I’m sure the yellow bits are mould.

Waiting patiently to be eaten,

Below an old picture of a Greek Island.

Remembering their youth in serrated shell,

Buried deeply in the sand.

Were they born near to Lancaster

On, the treacherous flats of Morecambe bay?

Then to be packed tightly in vinegar,

In a jar, until their end of days?

I bought a bag in a pub once,

 Then I ate them with a pin.

They tasted kind of rubbery

And even had grit within.

The humble little jar of cockles,

In a chippy, near to you and me.

They’re not as ugly as a whelk,

And they’re cheaper than scampi.

 Phil Hall April 2013