Poésie Marine

The sea writes its own poems. It recites them to no one. It murmurs them to the sand, to the pebbles, to those who know how to keep silent long enough to hear them.

At the horizon, a mauve-grey sky settles upon the water like a confidence. It does not seek to shine. It accompanies. And the sea answers, turquoise, vibrating, crossed by suspended foams that seem to float outside of time.

Each wave is a verse. Each foam, a breath between the words. The tide returns tirelessly to say the same thing, and yet, each time, it is different.

It is the poem the sea offers to whoever consents to sit upon its shore. It asks nothing. It soothes.

Matter, structural plaster, acrylic, gold leaf. Wabi-sabi. To paint the murmur. To sculpt the foam.