Niort

We were driving from Paris to Bordeaux one

particularly hot August, more than

forty years ago now, through the shimmering

grasslands and sun flowers of the Beauce,

and decided to break our journey

at Niort. We stayed near La Venise Verte,

tree-lined canals constructed from marshland,

Marais Poitevin, reclaimed from the sea.

We hired a barque – a flat-bottomed boat

like a punt – and made our ungainly way,

far from autoroutes and determined cities,

past pollarded alders and under arching

willows, out of the August sun, noisily

at first, then silently, to a place

of dappled light, of almost tangible

stillness, of water and leaves, and the soft

murmuring of oceans.