Across the Normandy Sands

Was jolie, the peasants, at low tide,
cockling on the beach,
I reached inside of me
and found the stone

Which maintained the pressure on the world
to bend at your pace,
you kept it constantly
near your skin, its cold
touch the only true

Signal for how you felt
about me, the mists swirl
the currents run about
the sand bars and soon

We'll be hastening back
towards the farm
and its honest kitchen
where delicacy abounds.

I thought I would never see again
those scenes, without panic
of what threatened them
always lurking, like the ones

Who were lost at low tide
and never came back.