Some Ruth drabble. Because I can. And because I was thinking about Nicola's comment on mutual understanding whilst cooking dinner and this fluff unfurled in my head and refused to budge.

This piece is for Lady J. Who thanks to Peter Firth likes this colour ever so much.

The poem is the one Ruth quotes in 3.7; The coming of the ship by Khalal Gibrain.

Her colour/his colour was blue. Blue was the bad times. Blue was feeling down and blue was sorrow and blue was grief. But blue was also the colour of the sea that crashed onto the golden sands of Greece, her second home. It was the colour of the deep, of the unknown, of coolness, of maturity, of tender understanding. And it was so much more.

She looked up and soft, enveloping dark blue was the colour of the night sky. The blue winked with white lights and symbolised a kind of hope. It was a starry night and blue was This and blue was the colour of salty tears. But they were no longer tears of despair. They were tears of joy. That the world could be quite this beautiful, that she could find it quite this beautiful. That the taste of salt from the drops rolling down her cheeks did not mean a soup pot of painful emotions. That they meant something else altogether and the colours were blue and yet it was alright because her soul was no longer a nasty navy blue, and she felt only calm.

Ready am I to go,
and my eagerness with sails full set awaits the wind.

Only another breath will I breathe in this still air,
Then I shall stand among you.

And he was there next to her. His breath was warm against her neck, his arm draped across her chest and it felt right. It felt right for them to be here under such a vast, open canopy (even if she wasn't quite back in Greece.) It felt right to be here on a deserted beach under this British summer sky. He woke as she sat up and wrapped her hands about her knees like a little girl. Full of innocence. He looked her in the face (and she him) and smiled as she put her hand in his. He wiped the tears away and kissed her and it felt right. It felt good. It felt sweet (maybe she was that little girl of wonder again/maybe the magic was Him.)

The colour of his unbuttoned shirt was blue. And that was love, that was desire, that was completeness all at once and she laughed suddenly as she pulled the shirt off him and ran down to the sea. Her own flowing blue top and skirt were splashed with salty waves but it didn't matter to her/him (it felt good to no longer be separate entities). And he laughed/she laughed as they splashed about like toddlers in the night-time waves (a force of nature or simply desire personified?).

Their love isn't hot and passionate and red. Not anymore. That kind of love burnt, petered out, curled up and died in the end. This is a shiny new thing and this time she knows it can last a lifetime.

And you, vast sea, sleepless mother,
Who alone are peace and freedom to the river and the stream,
Only another winding will this stream make, only another murmur in this glade,
And then shall I come to you, a boundless drop to a boundless ocean.

And I/you shall never leave again. By your side I/you shall be. Until the end of days.

I was thinking it could be kind of fun for people to give me Ruth/Harry poetry prompts and I could try and write a piece of drabble for each poem. I would enjoy that if people think this is a good idea.