Under-dragged, bent round and battered back,
limbs, heads and bodies smashed on the sheer-shelved stones
in spinning explosions of spray, brown water, salt
that shook out the breath and nearly the laughs
from our camping-up, woops and dives. To surrender,
be thrown around and sucked away, seemed sexy
compared with the scramble back, bruised and slipping
up fist-sized pebbles, to pant and dry out in the heavy,
milky sun.
Coming out, though, we giggled to see
the statement we’d made with our Calvin Kleins,
scattered aside in the flouncy joint dare that had suddenly
spurred our run to the plunge. There were miles of hazy,
lonely beach, only half-connected to land,
but some local anglers straight along the shingle
doubled our sniggers, helped us feel groupy and strong,
by looking our way and seeming to shake their heads
at the three queer Londoners who had bathed in the nude.
Only when back on the road did we read
the district council’s warning not to swim.
