230 GOLDEN DAYS 



Oh, Brittany, you are not forgotten 1 

 And I remember a moonlit night four 

 years ago, a lonely chapel, a ship suspended 

 in a silver sea, a little crutch that hung 

 against the wall, the sound of sabots 

 clicking tiptoe across the floor, the door 

 soft closed. 



I like to think that when Jean Pierre 

 fell St. Herbot bent low over that 

 whimsical still face that gazed across the 

 shell- shattered waste towards the west 

 and Brittany. I like to think that the jl 

 good saint spoke these words of comfort 

 to the parting soul, not with a heavenly 

 cadence, but in a rough peasant accent 

 like Jean's own — Qa fait rien ; fa fait 

 rien. Le Bon Dieu nest pas id cette i 

 nuit. II est au Khar. 



