John F. McCullagh (09/28/1954 / Flushing)
One Sixth of June
It seems, today, a peaceful place,
a sandy beach, a wine dark sea.
The grand assault, the thousand ships;
It rivals Troy in myth-story
Fate often hinges on one day-
the moment when the dice are tossed.
Here they breached the Atlantic wall
Here many a Mother’s son was lost.
One sixth of June was such a day.
And on that day the sea ran red.
Mine is a tale of butchery;
of many wounded, many dead.
One sixth of June, the storm now passed,
From out the fog, our fleet, they spied.
The heavy guns commenced to fire.
In a fearful rain of lead, men died.
What was in the souls of men
who breached the wall and turned the tide?
The Tommies and Americans
faced odds so close to suicide.
Some lived to tell of that longest day;
the sixth of June in forty four.
So many others fought and fell
and sleep in Normandy evermore.
Poet's Notes about The Poem
Comments about this poem (One Sixth of June by John F. McCullagh )
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