The Turnstone (Arenaria Interpres) the Harvester Of The Sea Shore Poem by john (called jack) wren

The still shivered in the morn snow
as feared feet trod the white tableau,
hour after hour they laboured on
turning chilled stones one by one,
searching and seeking those who hide
deserted by waves on the last tide.
And things that dance upon the sand
outcasts in this no man's land who
try to keep their pace, so to speak,
ahead of a jabbing probing beak.
Seaweed at rest on sand and rock
watch as these birds run amok,
cringing when they come near
looking for that tasty souvenir.
Shells huddle in a tight embrace
on this sandscape marketplace
like shields held on a battle field
covering their bounteous yield.