The Innisfree Poetry Journal

by Steven Pelcman


Normandy, France

If death
Were to take hold
Here, among a patchwork
Of grassy fields
You would never know
For there is little difference
In the gentle beauty
Of such stillness.

It is a cushioned thick earth
Full of Gothic stone
And brown-white cows
Where white light
Fingers its way
Through hedgerows
And into the sea

Where the blue tide waters
At dusk
Still drag skull bones
And bullets to shore
Full of windswept shadows
That touch the wind
When a man passes.

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