This is the season when the nuns
Come down to walk along the beach,
In pairs, like rare white wading birds,
Their wimples whipping in the wind.

Only their shoes shed,
They hoist their habits
Up above their knees
And walk into the waves.

But if God is this turquoise jewel of sea,
Wouldn’t he want to take them in unwrapped?
Let them feel the lightness of their limbs,
Their buoyant breasts?