June 6, 1944
--for my grandfather
Moving inland through an orchard,
apple trees full and fragrant,
flak flies,
waking the dead from
their peaceful slumber.
The churchyard speaks of
pale nights milking Holsteins,
of hedgerows and tombstones,
of the soft beckoning touch of flesh
which awaits us at home.
We do not long to join with them here.
The dead surround us
both above and below the ground.
We joke ourselves into faith.
Pinned beneath mortar fire
the sergeant gives the signal,
his face silhouetted by the explosion
of shells flung from distant lines;
here we will pass the night.
This is a night of
blossoms and bones,
and we sit, entrenched,
praying to get through to light.
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