The gasp for air
on entering seven-degree water –
we twirl off the slip in slight of swell
fluorescent pink and orange floats
playing tag in the sparkle.

Puffing round the white buoy with the black stripe,
the usual banter… crochet octopus, why not lime cake?
Jane’s pics, Simon’s lost gloves…

Suddenly sea-shifted,
the barnacle on gull-rock that last month
stole toe skin, now nibbles my right knee,
left buttock slaps the slip;
a rinse cycle in the froth.

Euphoria of body in one piece.