Glassy almonds of many colours strewn about,
Massaged by frothy hands.
The ghosts of conflicts past scuttle giddily on abundant limbs.
Armed and ready, should opportunity knock a second time.
A grey-green genetic soup swells and heaves under Paleolithic gates.
To the South lies the North,
Its ashen hills and sleepy cimtières a proud hinterland.
The painful thrill of the icy current. The jagged rocks. The slimy,
choking weeds.
Elemental forces unburdened by the the lethal follies of man.
Blood is spilled under Blanc Nez, as it was decades ago.
But there is no razor wire now, no rusty barbs waiting to eviscerate
lumbering lions.
A baraque à frites sat stoically atop a wind-scorched ascent hails
the wounded,
Their cuts and scrapes glistening as they congeal under a lemon yellow
sun.
Feel your limbs, light, almost emancipated from your body,
Your face tautened by the healing saline breeze.
Blood courses flamingo pink through your youthful veins,
Breathing life into those crumbling Republican pillars.
You sense that this is it, that this is where you need to be.
So aux armes! Defend this blissful feeling lest it die here,
Anchor your spirit to the restless dunes and demand your droit du sol.
