An opulence of travel visions:
Paris, London, Lisbon, Prague,
beauty rampant with history and art.

Yet etched forever in my mind
the beaches and cross-crowned cliffs
along the shores of Normandy.

A cliff face sheering from the ocean,
Pointe du Hoc, where army Rangers
climbed point blank into German guns.

Now, just empty bunkers on pitted earth
and beaches, wave washed innocent,
below silent sentinels left behind.

Row on row of small white crosses
guarding fields of blood-rich ground,
Old Glory whipping, snapping in the wind.