Postcards from Nairn

(to Jessica)

Saturday
Dear Jessica,
Here upon the white-light beach of Nairn
where sea turns deep in blue to meet the sky,
I think of you and wonder if you can recall
a time before your name had christened and
reclaimed you. Do you still hear the
Watchman’s echoed whisperings relaying
all those prayers that called your birth?
Can you feel the imprint of the hand that
rolled you gently down a hill to split your shell
upon this rock called Earth?

Sunday
Dearest Jessica,
Before Daddy wrapped you safely in the
blanket of his world and joy burst his walls
at your becoming or visitors who came to see you
swam inside the deep pool of your eyes,
as you held your Daddy’s finger in your
innocent vice – the device that you now
know as hand ; before Mummy breathed
the scent of your two thumbs – 8 perfect
fingers – can you remember the song of the sea?
Can you? Or do you need a shell to hear what
is and was and always will be fathoms deep
inside you?

Monday
Dear Jessica,
The sun shining down upon this sea at Nairn
shows the silver-blue of happenings and it
wonders at the woman you’ll become and it
wonders if, kicking off a tucked in sheet to
watch your ten toes wave or rolling on this
picnic rug of earth, you see the lamb-clouds
grazing on your field of birthday sky.
Can you rock upon the rhythm of the waters
of the womb or has this world, so soon, laid
down its claim and found new ways to frame
you?

Tuesday
Dear Jessica,
Today, upon this beach, a boy in yellow shorts
runs out with his green kite held tightly in the
hooping of his hand – As the wind takes it up
he laughs as he shouts, Look at me. See my
kite, and he pulls on its strings as a voice in
the sky – much too small to be heard – tells
the wind, I am bird. Why must I be a puppet
at this tiny speck’s command?
Don’t let the bully-boys rule you or the man
who is sure he is wise shout out his truths to
train, to contain or to tame you.

Wednesday
Dear Jessica,
All day upon these sun blessed dunes
footsteps kick out stars to shine the nights
of new horizons; evenings hold the waters
of the footprints that have pressed a damper
sand.

Thursday
Dear Jessica,
I wonder if you’ll see these words.
I wonder if one day you’ll find a way to
read beyond these words, if you will
answer questions we have yet to understand.
A Peter-Pointer finger traces out the letters
that will celebrate your birthday then I dig
their deeper channel with my hand.

Friday
Dear Jessica,
Our suitcases are packed. The evening beach
is empty and our journey home is planned.
The sky has seen your message now and every
year the breeze will come again to tell you
of these Happy Birthday wishes etched in
sand.

Julie Boden