This is the Pointe du Raz,
this place is Finistere,
the fall, the undertow, the earth's end where
my father's face is bones beneath the feathers of his blown back hair.
Tears in his mica eyes, spray on his skin
here on the Pointe du raz the salted man leans in
to the force of wind and the rough, wet air.
Keep blowing east to landfall, wind
from sea to earth, from dark beyond
the razor's edge of Finistere;
keep him keep all my safety here.
