Winged gargoyles crouch ready to pounce. Like mischievous djinn.
They utter soundless cries, from their gurning jaws.
Above them, the high spire, of Saint-Vincent cathedral, soars heavenward.
Landmark of the city intra-muros. Visible from both land and sea. A symbol of power, wealth and pilgrimage.
Today, sharply attired tourists flock to the streets at its feet. Drawn by glittering baubles, on display in designer boutiques.
The cobbles ring with the trans-Atlantic tones, of passengers shuttled ashore from a cruise ship. Which, with a silence denying its scale, took up station overnight, off the beaches of Dinard.
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