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Blue are the days that lace foam collars
clinging loosely to sodden rocks
Where icy brine slaps and sputters
over brims of recessed hollows,
then stills in pools.

Blue are the slate pebbles scattering the beach.
They clink and grind and drag in the dusk
where the lone gull dives with a screech,
and pulls a wriggling crab
from the stony seams.

Blue are the clouds that sail across skyline,
pulling their inky tails through waves,
torn by wind that strikes worn batholiths
and drives grains of granite
onward in its throes.

Blue are the mussels that sleep in the depth.
They open and close with the pulse of the tide.
Hidden from the sharp beak
that dashes them open
to steal their insides.

Blue is the body that bobs in the water
till the quiet gentle slapping
slides it to shore,
tucks it between the knees of boulders,
then slowly retreats.

Blue is the moon that breaks through the shadows
and bathes the cool cliffs in a radiant hue.
With time, the zephyr's chilled bite
wears the white bones
back to blue.