They were built beneath the skies of Normandy
and left to age.
Today, children press their faces
to the rusting eye of each gun;
feel the unyielding cold curve of the inside.
Traces of death and gunpowder
no longer linger.
As the men cowered behind them
they stood proud;
punched foreign shores,
fragile and fragmented lives.
Now, the gunpowder piles up
into two minutes of silence each year.
They hang their heads,