Nairn

Meekly, then, she reaches the edge,
denim rolled in perfect folds
of symmetry;
her long limbs
have the pallor of teacups.
 
She tests with a toe,
then laughs along
as we register her surprise
that the polar melt
has bitten her well-tended feet.
 
As she flees the foaming sea,
the saturated sand
borrows her impression,
and then, with reluctance,
commits her memory
to the air.