September 2, 2012
Bright, blowy weather this morning buffeting the coast and the beach landscape at Sérignan. Strong westerly winds meant that the sand was whipped up to sting any areas of flesh that weren’t covered but also offered up the opportunity of capturing the bois flottée more obvious on the sand without the sun worshippers. Strange light . . .
. . . a series of studies of beached timber.
The morning is full of storm
in the heart of summer.
The clouds travel like white handkerchiefs of goodbye,
the wind, traveling, waving them in its hands.
The numberless heart of the wind
beating above our loving silence.
Orchestral and divine, resounding among the trees
like a language full of wars and songs.
Wind that bears off the dead leaves with a quick raid
and deflects the pulsing arrows of the birds.
Wind that topples her in a wave without spray
and substance without weight, and leaning fires.
Her mass of kisses breaks and sinks,
assailed in the door of the summer’s wind. Pablo Neruda The Morning is Full