On the Normandy coast, far from Omaha beach, a hillside garden of apple trees reflect the Atlantic’s October light.
We dine on a salad of fresh corn, walnuts, parsley, butter lettuce and greens, followed by white chicken in cider, finishing with a tarte au poivre on a bed of burnt sugar.
As we depart, drowsed by cider, D day a dim memory, it is the fallen green apple uneaten on the stone steps that stills me.
Roger Camp
Roger Camp lives in Seal Beach, California where he gardens, walks the pier, plays blues piano, and spends afternoons with his pal, Harry, over drinks at Nick’s on 2nd. When he’s not at home, he’s traveling in the Old World. His work has appeared in Poetry East, North American Review, Southern Poetry Review, andPank.
