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
