Edited version, sent somewhere...

My mother and her sister watch their children, Scarborough 1990.

Not one of us was dressed for the summer wind,
all hippy skirts and billows with our hair caught in our mouths.
They weighted the blanket with their own selves,
secretly admiring body parts and underwear
in sudden flashes of sea wind.

We were genetic opposites, this cousin and I, and well aware
of our mothers' shame. In a moment of doubt
we turned the distance from our mothers into an excuse
and tucked our skirts into our knickers. We got our whole selves
wet in a rocky stream-slide, stopping just before the waterfall each time.

Walking up later, our dresses wet through, only the dog
was still carefree in the breeze, her fur parted and flowing
at her flank like fields of rape. Our mothers covered us
in towels with their own skirts firmly tied. We ate eggs
looking out to the wind-tossed sea.