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Poem	'We were killing pigs when the Yanks arrived. A Tuesday morning, sunlight and gutter-blood Outside the slaughter house. >From the main road They would have heard the screaming, Then heard it stop and had a view of us In our gloves and aprons coming down the hill. Two lines of them, guns on their shoulders, marching. Armoured cars and tanks and open jeeps. Sunburnt hands and arms. Unarmed, in step, Hosting for Normandy. Not that we knew then Where they were headed, standing there like youngsters As they tossed us gum and tubes of coloured sweets'
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