Regiments come an army from nowhere a flotilla of gas-filled sails powered by wind from the north. “Bluies”, endearments won’t take away their fire like lava to the skin of optimistic swimmers gambling with water love. Their ammunition dusky blue hangs down a deadly mobile in the nursery of sea. They drift to sear and stun whatever chance will bring to blunder in, tattoo flesh, imprint a row of red circle after circle upon skin, jewelling an arm, a leg or neck with microscopic weaponry. Nana Ollerenshaw
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