Indian Summer

Gnarled and free we frolic,
selkies seeking our pelts.
Summer’s bay shimmers coolly.
The air is beaten by ancient wings –
a heron coasts
along its own horizon.
Arms of glittering mica hold
a quick surface of sequins.
Our toes slurp oyster shells.
Samphire tempts our tongues.
Slack flesh tingles with delight,
reborn in this molten caul.
Cloaked in golden droplets,
far out, you stand.
Safe near soothing shore, I sway.
The swell of Jura’s Paps gleams.
Wild swimming indeed.

Finola Scott