The Innisfree Poetry Journal www.innisfreepoetry.org by Steven Pelcman TOUCH THE WIND 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. Copyright 2006-2012 by Cook Communication |