Ripples against the hull.

A low, gently thundering, stuttering vibration.

And movement, as the reddening hull judders under the engine’s compulsion.

And moves forward through the Thames.

Cutting through currents and making currents of its own, dark water moves over its rust.

Ripples against the hull.

Ripples cast outwards on the surface.

Light strikes.

Light is cast, fragmented.

And it lands in ripples on the ceilings of offices beside the river.

And the shimmer on the ceilings catches eyes and they look away from screens.

Just for a moment to notice blue sky.

And the river glistening.

The Actaeon’s hull, once dark blue, now patched with dark rust, reddening and invisible as it glides now at a fair clip.

And it casts ripples out, light upwards and out.

And it makes currents quicken as it hastens to Tilbury.


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