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| The placid soil of time, |
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| Stand Still to allow quicksand to engulf horses, |
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| and Castles alike. |
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| For all who look into the souls of men, |
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| are trapped by the Birds that fly above, |
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| and lay waist the city before them. |
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| To the last feather soaked in oil and pitch. |
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| To the Last Feather Soaked in water and blood. |
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| All stand firm and clasp their ground, |
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| to hold the giant Sky from collapsing. |
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| To the Mossy Stones unturned, |
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| All is silent. |
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| All is not lost. |
--
Out from my medieval dreams comes a city so lovely it flattens my ever grasping hands. I stood before it in awe, bewilderment, confusion, astonishment, perturbation, admiration, astonishment, esteem and reverence. An obtuse monastery built upon an Island in Normandy. It is Mont St Michel. The tide which rides in for nine miles speedily delivers in nine minutes. Quicksand covers the area for any who try to enter.
The city is a dream. It is from myth and legend. I could not believe I was at a place so congruent with my childhood desires. I was floating amid the clouds that surround the Island. The fog rolls from the shores and builds a blanket comforting the rocks beneath the castle walls.
The tower Abbey like a dagger in the sky pulls the spiraling road to its forefront. It clasps your breadth. It squeezes you empty. For it is minimal and calm like the monks within. The stone is harmonious with the movements of the people. All sit and wait for action to occur but nothing does. It is silent. The Mont is but a dream unable to be touched and moved by mere mortals.
--
