I’m such a sucker for A-frame cabins.
At the American Cemetery in Normandy at the end of March,
9,000 soldiers lie under pristine white uniforms
in perfect formation.
The Channel’s sky-blue water laps the shore, and
the sun shines sheepishly, as if
asking for approval to honor the dead
The parquet-patterned grass is trimmed into a flawless carpet:
A green only done justice on Hole 11
or paint advertisements.
Birds chirp in the trees on the shore,
in union with the faraway din of the surf.
The cliff-cured air is cool
and the conditions are perfect
for a beach day in the spring,
or an invasion of early June.
The smell of dew and cuttings
forces itself into
the sea-soaked air.