Saturday, April 28, 2012

Cap Ferret




Cap Ferret
by Kevin Cahill

the silver sea unfurls on the golden sands, from far off lands come migrant swans,
sea birds clamor in the heart of the bay, breezes lightly brush the queues of waves.


It is August, the entire world, it would seem, has funneled down to this point, the
end of a pencil thin peninsula, day by day, hour by hour, bumper by bumper,
they pass through the bottleneck. the parisiens and the bordelais spill
down upon the clotted fishing villages where houses bear names like
Yvonne, Penichette, Caprice… they spill down into condos and
campgrounds, gated estates with cloistered gardens, they spill
down all the way to the dunes and the beaches in places
called Petit Piquey, Arcachon, Lacanau. remorseless,
relentless spilling down, piling up, and spreading
out until everyone is assumed into one
monumental angle of repose, the
entire world, it would seem,
has been recomposed -
evacuated –
all here...
the hour
finally
up.




It is
September,
the tide turns
the traffic back,
the rubber tires of
Porches and Peugeots crush
empty oyster shells, pleasure boats
rest dry and derelict, tipped on their sides
in the draining basin ... the entire world, it
would seem, has been dispersed, the glass reversed.

the silver sea unfurls on the golden sands, from far off lands come migrant swans,
sea birds clamor in the heart of the bay, breezes lightly brush the queues of waves.

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