Should we trash your aunt’s portrait with nary a glance?
Take this excuse to throw it away?
Can we use the old closet as a place to deposit
The trumpet that no one can play?
There are sofas and chairs and loafers in pairs
unmatched and still to be packed;
barbecue sets smashed by unhappy pets,
and nine bottles of wine still unracked.
Several old tables with mouldering labels
sit forgotten on the back stoop;
while dozens of books lie hidden in nooks
and unwatered plants sadly droop.
Beautiful oak chests that used to serve guests
for overnight stays in the spring,
now jammed with hi-fi and cups and bonsai,
untidily tied up with string.
Boxes of china and photos of minor
children are packed in the car;
old wooden crates filled with pillows and plates
lie piled like produce bizarre.
There still are the spades, the shades and brocades,
the stove to unplug and wrap;
the children’s old cots, tights tied up in knots,
and plenty of crap to just scrap.
But we’ve lazed away weeks and now conscience tweaks
to put us in such terrible state.
Now that the day’s here, there’s too much to do, dear,
I just hope that the van will be late.
Seventy two years ago today, hundreds of thousands of men faced the wind and weather and their own enormous fears as they waited their turn to help free Europe from the despicable curse of Nazism. More than four thousand of them died on this very day, on the beaches and glider fields of Normandy, and tens of thousands more as the campaign rolled across France and then Germany.
And we must never forget the German casualties, for most of them were just as scared and all were just as dead as those of the Allies.
It was a day of awe, of death and of glory, of brutality and bravery, never to be forgotten.