And Still the Channel to Cross
Looking around,
Nerves stretched taut,
The winds and waters churning.
All are pale.
None will return.
Deep terror in us burning.
Normandy,
Damn those cliffs,
A beach changed to bloody swampland…
Though thousands die
To win that beach
From Hell’s elitist command.
© Copyright, Daphne Yvonne Bradshaw, 2000.
All rights reserved.
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