The men of Omaha grow old and die,
Their memories as dead comrades’ faces
Washed and worn away in the Channel tide.
Picked up in a litter, the bitter bread
Of the rattle of the guns on the shore,
Surfeit of last seconds and prayers half said.
The men of Omaha grow old to treat
Taut silence stretched on the ribs of the dead,
Riding out on the shoulders of the sea.