A circling plain, bleached flat in
wide-screen by sun and overcoming sky;
lonely home to hunting heron,
bird-call and clearing thoughts.
Hum of wind-washed grasses, bent in
rhythm, amplifying the calm.
An old channel, guided by memories
of flow, glistens its approach;
drifting a lazy course,
now one with my own.
Two rabbits disturb this marsh
stupor:
fen-land exile from beach-side camp.
Latent yet elemental, this low place
- Marais Salants - exists for salt: sluice gates alone keep out the
sea's patient intent; and for these short hours, a care-less hideaway is found here.
Ile de Noirmoutier, Vendee, France
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