In the old towers
Watching the waves collapse
Breaking into bubbles
And the music it made
Each tower with a tutu.
After she lost her signature
And gave up on extensions
She sailed from the home
In a dumb boat to an old block
The type certified unsafe
That were squatted.
A pebbledash of guano
Barnacles and gulls
A block with no tutu
That water argued through.
That water argued through.
She ate oysters and salmon
And when the waves were high
An old industrial mixer could be
animated
In her hands
There was nothing it could not produce.
She met a scrap diver there,
Old for a scrap diver
Who claimed never to have had a number
Since birth eating oysters and kelp
And something like noodles on the reef.
Surfing the long breaks, salted in the
knowledge
Of each block underneath.
And the scrap diver would come back
with gifts
Wrested from Atlantis
And she would throw them in the mixer
When the waves were high
And make robots to feed fish
And seed oysters.
She was happy
And as it happened
Would meet many of them again
Would meet many of them again
But one day in spring,
The scrap diver didn't come back
The gifts stopped
None of the divers came back that day
And when the waves rose
It just felt damp
So she went back up the hill
Leaving them onions, the windowbox
And her favourite robot made from
compasses.
