Spring

The sun rose over us, dazzling from the twilight, piercing the darkness like a star and shining so high that it could only fall. And then it persevered, again and again, as though it always wanted to remain above us, dizzying as a waltz, circling our bodies a thousand times as if it were the first time. Perhaps one day it will grow weary. In the meantime, it applies itself to reigning over the other stars, which swell and blush, taking it as their example, colliding and turning blue, sometimes horribly, until they become black holes.

It pretends to be alone and unique, yet it is merely one cog among the workings of a clock. Everything creaks and trembles, time gradually settles in, and I opened my eyes, and you were there, nestled right against me, warm and caressing, and you wrapped me in zephyrs, mistrals and hurricanes, trying to impress me as you would on a first date. And I answered in snaps, tremors and whirlwinds.

We stumbled, and I overturned my petticoats, and you fainted upon me, and your gentle breath scattered them all around us. Despite the sun, at times above us, not everything was so clear. I loved you from the very first instant, in a mire of passion and anger. You blew hot and cold, you played with me, and already I could feel a world trembling inside me. And fever took hold of me; I was hot, I was burning and boiling, I was cold and my body froze like a thick skin… was this already passion, or is life itself merely an illness?

Spring. I saw the ships of Odysseus pass through us. I saw him plug his ears so as not to hear the song of the Sirens, our daughters. I saw him cross the seas, thirsty for adventure, and for new flesh, unfaithful to gentle Penelope, who watched me from her windows. I saw the ships of the Argonauts. I saw Jason conquer the Golden Fleece and abandon the beautiful Medea. I saw William and Matilda cross the Channel, and explorers bring back spices, teas, coffees and chocolates, spreading diseases and invasive species in exchange. I saw men exploit other men, as though there could be differences between them. I saw hopeful men cross the oceans in makeshift boats, only to sink into my arms without ever reaching the other shore, or their dreams. I saw other men prevent them. I saw pirates. Warriors. Armed madmen. Useless wars and futile commerce.

I saw dreamers shut themselves inside nutshells for days, trusting the stars and murmuring among the clouds. I saw wires settle around my neck, my wrists and my hips, running over me, covering me in copper, cables and connections, so many embroideries beneath my dress meant to connect human beings to one another, and I trembled, and laughed at being touched so lightly. I saw men growing ever more curious, drilling through my skin, beneath the dermis and epidermis, tickling me again, to extract dead skins, which they call carrots.

The Flood

Children, close your eyes. The sky and I are going to make love for forty days and forty nights!

Close your eyes to the pleasure we will spread. Close your eyes to the landscapes we will jolt and overturn, a cliff here, a river there…

It is time for your father and me to find each other again. We need to be alone for a while. What do you mean, you are under the same roof too? The stars are delighted to see us making love; they have already taken out their binoculars and are forming Milky Ways.

Animated by chthonic desires, several beating hearts in several places…

Your face, your body, like a map that my wandering hands brush noisily, my fingers licking every corner, swallowing your plains and your hills, breaking against the feet of your mountains… Sky, I seek you in negative, in the crumpled sheets of the Earth, in my damp depths.

I am the surveyor who passes and passes again, tirelessly. Wave after wave, tide after tide, I retrace my steps. Did I still have a doubt? Suddenly I have forgotten; I must return. And this shell, was it there a moment ago? And this rock?

I trip over the lacework of my dress and give up on going back… I move forward a little farther, reckless, by day and by night, beneath the sun or its reflection in the moon… I am dazzled if your clouds do not protect me, and inevitably crash into the limestone cliffs.

Suddenly I strike a pose and admire the erosion I leave behind: I am a sculptor, mischievous, trying here and there, piercing or softening… articulating plants and minerals like lace disappearing beneath my skirts of foam.

Little by little, I extend my empire beneath you.

Summer

Summer. That morning, everything is calm, and I gleam. The sun rose gently, after only a few hours of darkness. It sparkles above us. It has covered my dress with soft reflections of reds and pinks, gold and alabaster. It has stretched its arms above my reclining body, which gradually breathes and stretches.

Every day is about going a little farther, touching the tip of this cliff, licking the crest of these dunes, their miles, losing myself in their tides, and when I am too breathless, after this slow and endless race, I retrace my steps.

In my course, I have carried away all my children, all my friends, these little parts of myself, organisms and microorganisms. I am thousands of teeming cities, I am a megalopolis, I am crossed by continents which, together with my lover the sky, I have slowly torn apart.

Like a pair of artists, we have patiently shaped the world to suit ourselves. We love watching things become. We love marvelling at what remakes itself every day, identical to itself, immutable, without surprise, barely changing.

And then, sometimes, a grain of sand, a cog, brushes against my fingers in my arms of sand. Sometimes a speck of dust crosses the air of my lover the sky and makes him sneeze.

The sky is very sensitive. And he sneezes so hard that he makes me tremble and dance. Then I begin to spin around myself, overturning everything around me. The sky and I sometimes dance to the rhythm of lightning, keeping time with thunderstorms.

And when we are thoroughly tired from dancing so much, we fall asleep, entwined against one another. And if we are not yet asleep, we contemplate the sun projected upon us, those reflections of fire. At last night is here, and an entire world can feast.

Reefs, dunes, shores, your hazards do not hurt me; I am supple and slide over your hips.

Higher still, stronger still, nothing can resist me, least of all you, even when you rumble, even when you thunder, even when you are at water’s edge, when I irritate you… and then brush against you like a garden, a garden of hazards.

I stretch myself across your expanses, in full strength beneath the endless days of the sun and the nocturnal moments.

This curious species watches us, the astrologers; and another kind, the astronomers, builds in your name structures edged with magnifying lenses.

Autumn

I have been watching that little wall for a long time now, drawing closer to it each day, crawling over the sand, over the rocks, over the pebbles. Dragging my torn, snapping dress at its feet.

I am often calm. But one day I will rise, I will lift myself up, I will throw myself against it and embrace it. Perhaps in my momentum it will fall; perhaps in my momentum, falling backwards, it will collapse upon passers-by and buildings.

You, the sky, all around me, will give me the strength to go and meet it. On a day when you are grey, stormy and windy, you will lift me up, and our two bodies joined together will hurl themselves against the sea wall.

With us, the birds, the fish, the molluscs, the jellyfish, the seaweed of every colour, will gather into a radiant armour, like an adornment around my neck, my hips, my ears; in my hair, seaweed, pearls and shells; on my hands and fists, like rings, mooring rings, lost barges and colourful buoys…

Against my chest, shipwrecks, waste, plastic bottles, all these thousands of corals, paler and paler, sicker and sicker, adorning the nets of pale oysters, all these fish too young, who will never be released, intoxicated to the point of nausea by mercury, lead, plastic, stateless corpses, abandoned tourist souvenirs, these heaps of laziness piled against my belly; stones that float, patiently eroded by my thousands of hands; driftwood and worn ropes, faded blue or eroded hemp, weaving themselves along my legs like elbow pads, greaves, and my helmet.

I am going to war against those silhouettes in the distance, that teeming mass which once caressed me with its boats, honoured me, feared me, dreaded me, and which now takes