You need to be early
to get the best mussels,
out on the chill flats while
the tide is out and the
morning mists are low.

It has been my routine
every Saturday since
I was married, as with
my mother and generations
of women in my family.

I fill my baskets, made by
hand under her critical eye;
the grandchildren do not like
how the weaves now smell of
old seawater and clams.

Tonight the mussels will
simmer in wine with garlic,
the old women will joke about
the young ones being so
eager to open like the shells.

Written for the Tuesday Tryouts with Margo Roby.



Filed under Poetry, Poetry - Prompts

6 responses to “Traditions

  1. LOVE the last stanza! What an unexpected ending. Superb.

    I love this photo, as I have seen my grandmother, and my amah, many times, bent over looking for shells and shellfish.

Some of what I write is true, some is fiction; most is merely possibility.

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s