Row
upon row of white against green,
Leading away to the sea.
Why are they there and what do they mean,
Pointing their cross-piece at me?
The silence o'erwhelms, it squeezes my heart,
The roaring of guns stilled by time.
I knew in the past - but only in part
Of this place and that day, sublime.
They came by that sea to this foreign shore,
N'er to go home again.
Storming through hell and the canon's roar
And a never ending din.
Preserving the world that they fought to save,
Keeping it safe for us all.
The land of the free, home of the brave,
It's what we're here to recall. |
Row upon row of white against green,
Leading away to the sea.
What I feel now was sure unforseen,
On my knees at Normandy.
Then silence at last, guns muted and still.
Brave hearts faltered, then died.
Brought to the top of this seaside hill,
At peace, where they'll ever abide.
And we
who were home, safe from the strife
Bow heads and think of that day.
All of those crosses, each one a life,
How can I ever repay?
No way I can, I won't even try,
But how to honor these dead?
I'll remember what they did, and why,
No choice but to pay ahead. |
Author notes
June 6, 1944, and I was 4 years old,
trying to figure out what everyone was talking about.
June 18, 1999, I stood on the beach at Normandy, and
in the American cemetery on the top of the hill and,
for the first time, felt the enormity of what had
taken place there, overwhelmed by the thousands of
small white crosses stretching as far as the eye could
see. A place of total silence, with only the sound of
the wind and the ocean below - the people standing and
walking slowly between the rows, didn't speak. We all
seemed to be dumb-struck with awe and reverence,
remembering . . . and giving thanks.
Written March 6th, 2006.
|
