The Tempest Xynthia 
I'm from this country, The Kidney on Wed
My ancestors, my parents are based the cemetery.
On seeing today in this place of misery,
I feel inside me, anger creep.
A strange anger, tinged with outrage,
By following these newsletters,
Where stakeholders, to seek reasons,
state from mistakes, and rumination.
I hear "I did not know", the "unimaginable"
While your houses are built on sand!
say that it is a surprise is inconceivable when
behind dikes were built to the devil!
The "marsh dried up" is an area of land that man has
patiently nibbled sea
Like yesterday, Holland, using polders
It could shape the land surface.
I also heard, "she resumed her rights,"
Speaking of the sea But is it a good practice?
And rather affirm, wonder why
The ocean came to settle on your roof?
Is it because we forget our homework,
That wave in getting worked up, kicks bumper? Or because
to build countless dormitories
We have removed its space-weirs?
When I was a kid, and even later, a teenager., I sailed the
streets and roads to bike. Back
La Pointe, and the wind at your back,
Arrive at the port, to watch the boats.
fault, near the dunes, we were pedaling.
the bridge is crossed, the pleasure we took.
was a pure delight, being
wander Through the pine forests, vineyards, salt marshes.
Near Point of Arçay after the Amourettes,
The sharp smell of pine trees we climbed to the head. And that shadow
accomplice, giving us a hiding,
encourages us to take a nap discreet.
Many summers later, thirty years
Such fond memories, I wanted to find.
A La Faute sur Mer, I went back,
Simple curiosity, just for a walk.
But, very distraught, I did not recognize anything.
With these constructions, I'm still lost!
houses, villas, campsites and roads,
images of childhood, too, disappeared.
Vines grandfather's where we went, children,
Caps protecting us from a blazing sun,
glean grapes, parents harvest. More
nothing there, nothing in the party.
to the sting, too, instead of "Communal" A whole
lots of houses, subdivision banal!
The "relay", the anti-flood ancestral?
Coated house, dark commercial bonanza!
Let us remember the words launched by our elders:
"At all times, the ocean can come and scold us,
We are in his hands, nothing more than toys or simply tolerate it
hustles to his will. "
I, during my research, found a document
Three words in a register of nearly three hundred years where the pastor
Crane told simply
The levees broke and flooding.
But what is striking in this short report,
is the similarity of these developments
A three centuries apart. Those episodes experienced,
Can we call them today to unforeseen?
And what were the ideas, desires, bait
Some local officials, the State services,
To be forgotten, intentionally or not,
memory of men, this consciousness?
Unfortunately, I think it's even money
Who leads the world to be less cautious.
And one is criminal, whether intentionally
For the money, it does not take into account the elements!
It was not until there were more than twenty dead
That in mind, we recognize its wrongs.
But it is a little late to feel remorse,
The sufficiency of man creates a Pandora's box.
Before I completely doubt the man
That for all his faults, he undergoes a chore,
Being away in a great maelstrom,
I suggest a break together, ad libitum.
What is the nature of wanting to fight?
Is it really a proof of culture
Or discernment, but to take an armor And
isolated from the world, creating fences? For if
Neptune gets angry, deeply tired
To see the ocean, by man, if mishandled,
Respect his anger, his bursts of hardness,
Let them space, let us follow it.
But man disdains the natural too.
He thinks higher, but lives in the unreal.
believe that dominate everything, this dream irrational
Is indeed true that the original sin.
Do not think harder, but be smart,
Adapting to the world, its environment,
We will at all, inevitably,
To understand and live with the elements.
This cove, opposite Ré, man is a tenant,
But its owner is always the sea
And if need places to work the land,
A great humility is a necessary evil.
March 2010
"The Impact of
ecember 1740, the water cut the bot Groleau and the Garda in several places. They remained on the parishes of Cranes, St Denis, St Michael and Triaize six weeks. bot Bourdin was cut on December 13 that year. All wheats were lost. The following year, 1741 was the driest it has ever seen. It point is mowed hay throughout the parish of Cranes or in the near tops of other parishes. "
(the bot Bourdin is still on the cards IGN)
Sitting on a stone revetment, the swallows wait ... This granite is 
