Atlantic Blue

Entranced by the counter-clockwise churn of the North Sea,
she observed how the tides resisted the will of the sun, turning endlessly
away from the light.
            How had she caught her reflection in such choppy waters?

In the distance climactic crests scratched white fingernails down
the arched backs of waves that never tired of breaking while she remembered
ancient artists once painted sirens as men.
                        Her gaze drifted too far out into their ageless palette

and she forgot herself in the thrall of stonewashed whale song, mist of iron-scaled mackerel,
aventurine quartz, witch flesh, foam of Triassic lizard bones, ebb of moorland rain, the lost,
indigo shadow of Atlantis, the whip and salt of sea spray and the silver whispers of a crisp
February morning speckled with gull egg grey.
                                    The countless moods of his Atlantic blue eyes
those eyes she’d begged to drown in.