English poem
Iv
by Archibald Allan Bowman (1883–1936)
The bridge across the Lys! A slender thread To bind or bar thy holders to their own; But one span, small and narrow, lightly thrown Over these sullen waters, lightly shed. Upon thy planks the heavy-booted tread Of men who seemed with sudden trouble grown Haggard. “What are you?” “Durhams.” “What is known?” “Our billet down, our officers are dead. We seek a new position further on.” Position! Little recked they then how steep The way, how sure the ending. They were gone, And the keen harvester prepared to reap In fresh fields. The mourne blanket of the dawn Gathered the Durhams to eternal sleep.
RASTATT, 28th April