Feiz ha Breiz*

The watchman on the alert, a luminous pulse on the black ink, a scourer of foam on the way to fishing, traces the coastal path with a stroke of the pen.
The port before the grain, barnacle on the concrete staircase, sipping the contemplative isolation at the blue hour in a glass of white. A mackerel interlaced
with laurels, the railings Finally, the boat is coupled with a surplus of rust, traps and blue nets are coupled in the dread of winter in Finistère.
Atlantic in dry ink, Cornish seagulls on the post, salt flower on a bed of clams to dry the iodized tears in the hold. An exacerbated beauty, a dishevelled soul,
an overflowing virility stare discourteously at the grain of sand on the edge of the bilig.

*Faith and Brittany