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