Father and son, hand in hand, laughing their way to
the waters edge,
One hot summer’s day in June,
With bucket and spade at the ready to build a
fortress of sand,
Under the shadow of a concrete pontoon.
While brothers in arms wade ashore, met by a salvo
of death,
To establish a key beachhead,
As bodies are ripped asunder, amid adrenalin,
anticipation, fear,
Turning this gold beach blood red.
Into the bucket goes golden grit, it isn’t blood red no
more,
Time and tide has washed the stain away,
And though unseen uniformed men fight forward,
For many it will be their first and last day.
Father and son turn back from the shore stepping
over wilted flesh,
As bullets select more casualties,
They pass two women going for a swim among the
landing craft,
No time for wolf whistles today ladies.
Soon all is quiet, visitors long gone, so the sun sets in
the west,
No more dying beneath the clouded light,
Teatime for father and son then a story before
bedtime,
But who’ll read to the boys sleeping on the beach
tonight?
Copyright © 2022 Richard DJJ Bowdery. All rights reserved.