The tired air groans as the heavies swing over, the river-hollows boom;
The shell-fountains leap from the swamps, and with wildfire and fume
The shoulder of the chalkdown convulses.
Then the jabbering echoes stampede in the slatting wood,
Ember-black the gibbet trees like bones or thorns protrude
From the poisonous smoke – past all impulses.
To them these silvery dews can never again be dear,
Nor the blue javelin-flame of the thunderous noons strike fear.
Leave a guest comment (subject to review)
Comments
-
Reading
From guest C Watton (contact)
I read this poem to my students during a visit to the Ulster Tower archeological site on the Somme recently. It certainly had a powerful effect on their own writing later that day. I'm glad you have included this as a classic. Thank you.
Adding your comment:
