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This poem is taken from PN Review 134, Volume 26 Number 6, July - August 2000.

Samphire Robert Minhinnick

After the hurricane blew
Through my head I knew

Things had to change. That silence
Was no longer a defence.

So walking on the eastern shore
I asked myself what I was for,

And on that beach I built a fire
For the pickers of samphire,

Their plasticbags and fingers thick
With the samphire's citric

Oils, our thoughts turning to supper
Of seabass, or a silver-

Side of sewin laid
In tinfoil in the pit I'd made

On a griddle over ingots
Of driftwood, white-hot
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