We go to Maguelon,
The sky dark with salt,
Black in the south,And the Middle Sea tearing at the shore.
The pink question marks
That are flamingos
Unfold into exclamatory flight -
Prehistoric dashes in the grey air,
Red certainties punctuating turmoil.
By the canal, boat debris,
And a café for travellers,
Shut for the winter.
We are here when my questions
Do not find answers.
None found in the cold cathedral.
And, in the etang,
The flamingos land,
Becoming question marks again.
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