Sand and Water

(A poem written while Rita and I visited Omaha Beach in Normandy, France this spring. The situation is fictitious, by the way. We were tired, but not 'warring'.)

She and I came warring to this beach of our fathers’ generation,
A place of ocean sand a world afar, a time too far too far away,
When hating hate fused man to machine in tragic and scheming play;
Old Fortinbras' revenge renewed, inglorious for ev’ry nation.

Here, bloodied waters wash healing salts ashore, ne’er anemic, ever fading;
Memories vicarious give context to mine, shrouded in muted powers;
And, bone-white sentinels of cross and star stand for eternal hours,
Invoking God’s honor in borrowed nave, peace and promise persuading.

Her sandied feet bruised and wearied press this Norman earth now new;
Prints of heal and toe o’erlay the booted soles inclined toward death,
Liberating her, convicting me while entwining our envisionous breath:
Lo, the saviors up dying dune in duty, in love, they submit for me.

I kneel to wash her feet; a friend, a mate more sacred than before,
Beatified bride unveiled by crucified pride to love and war no more.