It’s an Irish morning. Rain stains the window
like frosted glass and wind moans in the locks.
Our horizon, a long dark smudge, overlooks
an estuary fed by two rivers. Where this abundance
meets in water, fresh and salt, Patrick
has his oyster beds. They flourish in this rare
accommodation in thin and lonely lines.
In Dicken’s London oysters fed the poor –
now they go to restaurants in Spain. But today
it’s Thursday – no time for mollusks in their shells.
Today the family feasts on cabbages and bacon.
On the stove the bacon’s boiled, the cabbage, sliced,
is cooked in liquor from the meat, and all is mixed,
then served with turnips, mashed. You may
imagine seasonings and butter, and laughter satisfied.
Out there the oysters wait their consummation.
Cleaned and tasting only of the sea,
they’ll pass down throats anonymous and cold.
J.A.Huddart 
A beautiful poem, John, thank you, that does justice to the place that inspired it. Its tone recalls the lilting melancholy of John McCormack’s singing of ‘Macushla’ or ‘The Rose of Trallee’. And its a unique piece, I think. I can’t recall another poem that makes a feature of a recipe, and a tasty one a that!
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