The
shifting sands remember
the
walker from the days
when
April was December
seen
through a summer’s haze.
Now,
darting on air’s whispers,
the
swallows’ cousins dance
and
here with ocean’s sisters
they
leave nothing to chance.
A
look, then glance away,
the
flying penguins turn
and
chase the breeze.
Knowing
one thing, I see,
this
monument is ancient
and
divine.
With
six years gone, a moment
for
the rock beneath.
But
for the sickles of the air,
le
mont, the rock, a place to stop from air.
So
brief, a loss of flair
and
drop once more to home,
where
wings become the tools of freedom
and
people only stare.
It’s
fine to return,
if
time begins again
and
the courage of the heart
deepens to complete
what
it once began.
©
Andrew Williams 2001
Le Mont Saint Michel, Normandie.