My Father stands, sailor-fashion, smiling
with arms folded in Sunday satisfaction,
legs apart, on a wide Scottish beach.
Behind him the flat-swept strand
is empty to the sparkling sea.
Summer was always like that;
sun and wind and the cold sea
The air blows through his wide-bottomed
trousers. His shirt sleeves are rolled
above the muscles of strong arms,
the arms that would hold and swing,
hug and protect us against the sea wind.
Sunday afternoons at Seafield,
Father, Mother, my sister and me
Sunday-school manners forgotten,
we chased through chattering waves.
Screeching like seagulls we
slip-streamed slimy seaweed
behind us in the whip of the wind
and competed for Father’s approval
over castles of crumbling sand
There was Mother with a camera
and Father standing sailor-fashion, smiling
with a sermon tucked in his shirt pocket.
The world was as wide as a Scottish
beach, free as the seagulls, wild as
the wind, and as snapshot perfect
as a summer Sunday in the sun
and the wind and the cold sea.