Falling blue

In the sailmaker’s loft on Coenties Slip she tilts a blue Plexiglass box in her hands a hundred beads sift and slew making unmaking a wave swells breaks and breaks.

Islands sway through the tide race channels the line her boat draws holds and dissolves Nothing but blue skies her favourite song sun swinging by whistles never so bright.

The sea rocks in its net of coordinates at night the waves are fretted gold and blue they tilt to blue and gold then nothing shines in this room nothing but blue falling blue.

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