Inherited

Clambering,

Limestone loosens and leaps beneath her rushing feet.

Hidden, a sandy landing, weakly bathed in a warm winters light, looks out grandly,

Arrived.

From the cafe, noses inhale; Sea salt, brine, mouthes sip and exclaim

What a view!

Bustling lines from the city. Exhale, finally.

Away.



Everything is as Friday, midday. Anticipation builds.

The ocean still and pulsing, pulsing, pulsing.



firm bristles soften under her fingertips.

She notices. Hears the glistening, the suggesting.

Of that cove, her childhood home.



To the cafe people. She is a blur

,maybe,

atop the rocky outcrop.



But the ocean is there, a comforter, heavy and knowing.



Looking down from up, time erases.



Later, standing in a darkening room.

The paint now dried. Looking down from up at down from up.

Was it caught? That inky, that light? That Dark, within and without of sight?

Schools teach the ocean is blue.

But in IRL (in real life)

It’s not. Its, a hue.

Sitting, bum cold in the sand, down from up and up from down the frantic brush grasps at ultramarines, wrangles with zinc and finally seeks crimson remorse.

Digital numbers change into afternoon. Vessels swell like the surface of a drum. The drummer, deaf dumb and blind is the old ignorant Purpose. Immovable, his deftly rhythm defined.

In the dark room,

delight prickles as if back in midday.

The ocean, it lays,

Captured!

unanimously the crimson, like blood, had surfaced the deep into gentle, simmered the pulsing into warmth, seeped and drifted oxygen into alll the spaces.

like her mother before her, she senses

Purple