My reflections on traveling through the region of France that was invaded on D-Day June 6, 1944 by Canadian, British and American forces.
The sun was low in the west casting a golden beam of light on distant figures far out from the shore appearing as is out of nowhere. Also looking down the beach I saw I was no longer alone. A figure was sitting on the low concrete wall that formed the edge of the bunker. She sat with knees up to her chin, wrapped by her arms and a thick white wool sweater. Long dark hair was being tossed by the wind
around her face pale in the deepening twilight.
We both sat separated by twenty or so metres, lost in the twilight of our thoughts. After some time I
looked up and she was gone. With her departure the spell of the place was lifted.
The sun was low in the west casting a golden beam of light on distant figures far out from the shore appearing as is out of nowhere. Also looking down the beach I saw I was no longer alone. A figure was sitting on the low concrete wall that formed the edge of the bunker. She sat with knees up to her chin, wrapped by her arms and a thick white wool sweater. Long dark hair was being tossed by the wind
around her face pale in the deepening twilight.
We both sat separated by twenty or so metres, lost in the twilight of our thoughts. After some time I
looked up and she was gone. With her departure the spell of the place was lifted.
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