In response to our visit to Omaha Beach in Normandy, I wrote a poem in an effort to capture the fleeting feelings and emotions of the beach.

Gray touches Gray.  The Green is out of place.  Waves seep the shore clean.

The Breeze rushes through you, by you, up, up  towards the lush cliffs.

Like Water rubbing the cliffs away, the wind leaves the soul and mind

rough and bare.  The Tide draws you out, pulling you further from shelter.

Slowly Sand sways under your step.  Water encloses your foot,  step by step.

Closer to where Gray touches Gray.  The Cold morphs away as the tide pulls

you further,  further into its grasps, piercing your soul, making you forget.



Silence.  Silence crawling up your spine, seeping into your souls and weaving in

your mind.  Rolling Waves hush.  NOT Telling of the remains pulled back.

refusing to reveal the bygone souls.  There lays a Sole scrap succumbing

to the sea slowly,  slowly trying to stay a float in the sinking sand.

Every Tide carries sand to soften the edges, burying the remainder

encouraging Gray touching Gray.



Follow the Wind.  Allow it to turn you.  Cliffs asunder out from the land

meeting the clouds.  Gray touches Gray.  Quaint Cottages once lost in the mist

find souls.  Pivoting, Following the land, find Yourself in the presence of the upward

looming defense.  Eeriness shudders.  All alone where Gray touches Gray.

Soundlessly the Breeze ruffles through the foliage surprising the voice

of the land, the story of forgotten souls.  Twisting, Intertwining leaves smooth

over the damage.  Death marked only by ST. Bishop’s lace.  Here no Gray touches Gray.