Sun slants across the basket—red and green apples, skin mottled by autumn.
The dog stands at attention, nose full of grass and day’s news,
as garden shadows march along the stone wall.
Behind every apple, a memory;
laughter caught in branches,
secrets whispered to watering cans and petals.
Home is made in such small moments—
a harvest, a watchful friend, the promise
that ordinary beauty is always ripening.

They say the wind here never rests—
that it paints each branch with the memory of storms.
This tree, half-clad in summer green, half-bare,
leans eastward, stubborn and sure,
a map of seasons etched in its silhouette
against a sky stitched with salt and cloud.
How many tides has it watched,
how many wandering souls has it sheltered?
A sentry of resilience, it bends,
but does not yield—rooted deep in Coutainville’s patient soil.

Iron frames wait beneath patient sky,
draped in sagging seaweed—sharp, briny treasure hidden within.
Low tide is silence and revelation;
the exposed beds mirror old stories—
rows marching toward the horizon
where sea and sky plot tomorrow’s feast.
Time here means cycles,
means care and length—
a slow conjuring of sustenance from sand and salt,
where patience is the truest skill of all.

Three figures stride out on silver flats,
baskets swinging from shoulders,
boots teasing the chill of morning water.
Each step is deliberate, slow,
music of tradition shaped by centuries—
shells, salt, sun.
Their backs curve into labor,
their laughter blends with distant gulls—
all of Normady’s generosity bound to the shore,
woven in the rhythm of hands and harvest.

Beside the rolling surf sits the trolley, patient,
wheels sunk in ridged sand, remembering work.
The boats have gone, the sea whispers, yet it waits—
for hands to return, for hulls to roll home with the catch.
There’s a kind of yearning in its emptiness—
not loss, but readiness;
like fields after harvest,
like nets before the swarm.
Here, on Normandy’s shore, absence makes
a space for hope to land with the tide.

On the rise, shapes gather—unspoken assembly under the ancient pine.
Sun sinks, shadows spill, and a whispered hush settles on Normandy’s edge.
Here, friendship is a quiet thing,
a circle woven by wind, earth, sky.
The day loosens, and stories drift,
feet pressed to grass, hearts knotted like roots.
In the darkening air, every joy and sorrow
tastes sweeter, stretched beneath branches
that remember other meetings, other dusk-lit hours.