Beachcombing
by Geraldine Mitchell

Nobody shoots the seagulls
that feed on seaweed banks
at Bunlough where the ocean
stripes like ice-cream
and snow sweeps the islands
with a grey brush.

Recipes for oyster catcher
have not yet appeared
in the Sunday papers.
No sandpiper pie,
or curlew crumble.

You can still gather driftwood
on Killadoon beach,
drag whole telegraph poles
home with you
without danger of rape.

Nobody's turned the rivers,
diverted the streams,
fenced off the wells,
cornered the black market
for buckets. Yet.