The Worm Man of Dungeness
He scatters boot-prints
across a soggy moon,
trudges his sled on blistered sands,
clouds curdle at his feet.
Nabbed from their burrows,
he lands the salty lugs,
coils them into shreds
of yesterday’s news;
all yellow tails,
fat middles
and a squeeze
of muddy innards.
Some sell fresh
to the cod man’s bucket,
others shanked through hooks
on seaside fronts,
neaping tides
to dupe
their drownless bodies.
Dan Stathers is a writer from South Devon who hasn’t given up on his first poetry collection.
