Death was everywhere,

in the air

and in the sounds

coming off the mounds

of Bolton's Ridge.

Death's anchorage.

When you rolled a smoke

or told a joke,

it was in the laughter

and drinking water

it approached the beach

as strings of cutters,

dropped into the sea and lay around us.

Death was in the ancient fortress,

shelled by a million bullets

from gunners, waiting in the copses

with hearts that threatened to pop their boxes,

as we advanced into the sun

death was all and everyone.

Death hung in the smoke and clung

to 400 acres of useless beachfront.

A bank of red earth, dripping down death

now, and now, and now

in the air

and in the sounds

coming off the mounds

of Bolton's Ridge.

Death's anchorage.

Death was in the staring sun,

fixing its eyes on everyone.

It rattled the bones of the Light Horsemen

still lying out there in the open

as we, advancing in the sun

sing "Death to all and everyone."