Wankers Playing Golf on the Battlefield

Étretat, 2025

They did not die for this.

For the robot cart whining up the hill,

lugging clubs like it’s hauling justice,

for the backswing silhouetted

against the same cliffs that watched

bullets shred boys into smoke.

Here,

on this grass stitched tight

over the wounds of Europe,

men in visors measure wind

as if precision ever saved a soul.

The Atlantic Wall crumbles behind them,

its teeth dull with sea salt and shame.

They tee off near bunkers

once filled with fear,

now echoing with the hollow thwack

of sport.

They did not die for this,

for weekends spent

betting on par scores

where boots once slipped in blood.

For laughter too loud for ghosts,

for polo shirts clashing with poppies.

There are bones underfoot.

They do not rattle.

History is quiet when ignored.

No plaques for the drowned boys.

Just sunscreen.

And GPS tracking for your clubs.

The cliffs remain,

shoulders hunched into mist,

watching the same sea

carry new generations

of forgetting.

And maybe it's easier—

to reduce it to scenery.

To carve a fairway through memory

and plant flags

in the land of the dead.

But still—

the rocks remember.

The iron in the soil remembers.

And somewhere deep,

the war cries of young men

rise like salt in the breeze.

Not for glory.

Not for God.

Certainly not for fucking golf.