ROSCOFF

Dors, va, mon pauvre Roscoff, rocked by the salt bluster of your
springtime gusts, the wind peering crookedly around the IMPASSE
CORBIÈRE . . . Let your rest be rhythmed by those flurries of air that
tickle crenulated waves across your sea pools, that stir miniature breakers
into the foamy mousse of evening beer clutched by families on the beach
. . .

Sleep, lulled by the he-he-he of wading sandpipers and the barn
owls’ wind-up screech (like the shuddering clockwork mechanism of a
child’s toy) . . . Tune your sleeping ear to the clatter of mussel shells
tumbling from the chef’s hands at La Moule au Pot . . . And the watery
clink of a winkle lobbed back into shallow waters.

Nod off as the sea-wrack nods its sleepy head . . . Pulsed waves
tilt the weed closer and closer to shore, as this night heaves dreams
steadily towards the clear surface of day . . .

Doze wrapped in your blue streaks of graffiti, the faded blue paint
that laps the elegant panels and nodules of the door to the AQVARIVM,
the startling gradations of blue at Plage Roc’h Kroum, the breath-taking
and unexpectedly mottled gasp of (eggshell?) blue inside the washed-up
crab carapace, partially obscured by grains of sand . . .

Sleep your heartfelt sleep, held in twilight certainty that LOLA
2022, THOMAS 2023, and MATISSE 2024 have grazed your granite
walls.

Rest your eyes . . . the breaths of the night-swimmer trawling
your currents (in her low-backed costume and neoprene gloves) merge
with the hushed billow of your waves . . . She twists like a seal in the
swell . . .

Sleep now, ta grande chandelle de l’île de Batz est là, the
oystercatchers, soft green onion shoots, names traced in the sand, yellow
lichen, chuckling gulls . . . all are là . . . Sleep now, mon Roscoff, va . . .
And I will sleep too, in my small hotel room, in the crook of warm arms .
. .

Suzannah… blurb