My great uncle was named George Miller
He was born in 1920 and died violently in 1944
During the D Day landings in Northern France
I am led to believe that he was killed instantly
By machine gun fire as he waded waist deep
In the sea after leaving the landing craft
George was married to Mary and was a bookseller
They lived quietly in Sidcup but had no children
Like me George was a poet but rarely published
He referred to himself as occasional poet
But he was better than that as he had a unique voice
Last year during the very hot summer of 2022
I visited the beach in France where George was killed
It is today a benign and pleasant place
With many people enjoying the simple sands
Prior to my visit I had been told that George
Always carried a notebook of his poetry
In his tunic pocket so that he might take notes
It is assumed that he was carrying this notebook
When he died although it was never recovered
To be truthful I felt nothing as I stood in the shallows
Where George had been lacerated without conquest
I had hoped to hear his poetry in the summer waves
But all I felt was the silence and tragedy of a wasted life
Later I visited the military cemetery where George now sleeps
And left some summer flowers as an act of remembrance
I also left a sealed note from Mary written in violet ink
She still lives in their original Sidcup home and is in good health
I had mixed feelings as I drove back towards the ferry
Like a fool and a poet I thought that I would hear
The poetry of George Miller being whispered from the sea
It was an empty fancy and little else
But at least I had shared the silence of his poetry
And that comforted me and I felt less haunted
As I sailed back towards the country of my birth