Jul 1
A tribute to clammers
A Mess of Clams
by Robert P. Tristam Coffin
The fields are high with all the Winter’s snows
But somewhere there is cawing and glad crows,
And ice upon the bare birches feels the sun
And twinkles and is starting to run
An old, old man, with no tooth in his head
Is walking fast, and Spring is in his tread
As he wades the snowdrift of his farm,
His clam-hoe and clam-basket on his arm.
Down below him, all his bay is white,
But out towards sea the dark place overnight
Has widened, and blue waves are twinkling clear
Above the first and best clams of the year.
The March sun burns upon the man’s bent bones,
His wife is lying where the slanting stones
Are hidden by the Winter. All his sons
Are begotten and have begotten new ones.
He is alone, but he can go and bring
His mess of clams home in his eightieth Spring
As he could in his twentieth one, and he
Can pick his dinner up out of the sea
Just as well as any man alive
And think of things like young men fit to wive,
His head is high and handsome as a ram’s,
And life is good and tastes of sweet young clams.
Read in tribute to Larry Coffin at his funeral last week.
3 Comments so far
How is it that you knew this poem was read at Larry’s funeral
with regards.
Bobby Coffin
My father, Arthur Dodge, attended the funeral and sent me the poem.
Thank you for the response,
with regards
R.T.C. II