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ATTACK
AT dawn the ridge emerges massed and dun
In the wild purple of the glow'ring sun,
Smouldering through spouts of drifting smoke that shroud
The menacing scarred slope; and, one by one,
Tanks creep and topple forward to the wire.
The barrage roars and lifts. Then, clumsily bowed
With bombs and guns and shovels and battle-gear,
Men jostle and climb to meet the bristling fire.
Lines of grey, muttering faces, masked with fear,
They leave their trenches, going over the top,
While time ticks blank and busy on their wrists,
And hope, with furtive eyes and grappling fists,
Flounders in mud. O Jesus, make it stop!
In the wild purple of the glow'ring sun,
Smouldering through spouts of drifting smoke that shroud
The menacing scarred slope; and, one by one,
Tanks creep and topple forward to the wire.
The barrage roars and lifts. Then, clumsily bowed
With bombs and guns and shovels and battle-gear,
Men jostle and climb to meet the bristling fire.
Lines of grey, muttering faces, masked with fear,
They leave their trenches, going over the top,
While time ticks blank and busy on their wrists,
And hope, with furtive eyes and grappling fists,
Flounders in mud. O Jesus, make it stop!
A poppy from Flanders Fields.
Myself at The British cemetery at Arras
British graves at Arras.
It's hard to equate war with poetry but this is so heart-wrenching that it shows one can find poetry anywhere you will find feeling.
ReplyDeleteWhen Paul and I were in France, we visited so many cemeteries. Sometimes they were quite small--a fierce battle fought in one spot claiming twenty or so lives. So very sad. We also visited the American WWII cemetery in WWII in Normandy. After walking up and down the rows, we stopped at a grave were a Ranger was killed. He was from NJ, as am I. It just breaks your heart.
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