BATTLE

It is midday: the deep trench glares.... A buzz and blaze of flies.... The hot wind puffs the giddy airs.... The great sun rakes the skies.

No sound in all the stagnant trench Where forty standing men Endure the sweat and grit and stench, Like cattle in a pen.

Sometimes a sniper's bullet whirs Or twangs the whining wire; Sometimes a soldier sighs and stirs As in hell's frying fire.

From out a high cool cloud descends An aeroplane's far moan.... The sun strikes down, the thin cloud rends.... The black speck travels on.

And sweating, dizzied, isolate In the hot trench beneath, We bide the next shrewd move of fate Be it of life or death.