Marne-la-Vallée, the vale, namely the valley marked by the range of lowly eminence on either side of the slithering river La Marne. But, here, I mean it from a personal way of seeing and that from Le Parc de Noisiel, those faces of declivity gilded by the setting sun as the sky magenta. And just next by the gate of the park, with its gilded curlicues of rococo designs, there is a squarish plot for personal venture of trying on any growable things--flowers to herbs to vegetables. And along the length of its border on one side, I found those curious irises in their fresh mantles of purple and green rather sharp and pointy sort of lost in their being there as enduring a vegetating period but short as the nature of their life is. Yes, curious that was what they were but not those passersby--human beings jogging, cycling, promenading, ambling, or lost in folds of overlapping futures and pleasures and dreams.
