Exposure

Our brains ache, in the merciless iced east winds that knive us . . 
Wearied we keep awake because the night is silent . . 
Low drooping flares confuse our memory of the salient . . 
Worried by silence, sentries whisper, curious, nervous
But nothing happens

Watching, we hear the mad gusts tugging on the wire
Like twitching agonies of men among its brambles
Northward, incessantly, the flickering gunnery rumbles
Far off, likе a dull rumour of some other war
What are wе doing here?

Pale flakes with fingering stealth come feeling for our faces—
We cringe in holes, back on forgotten dreams, and stare, snow-dazed
Deep into grassier ditches. So we drowse, sun-dozed
Littered with blossoms trickling where the blackbird fusses
—Is it that we are dying?

Tonight, this frost will fasten on this mud and us
Shrivelling many hands, and puckering foreheads crisp
The burying-party, picks and shovels in shaking grasp
Pause over half-known faces. All their eyes are ice
But nothing happens

Nothing happens

Nothing happens

Nothing happens

Nothing happens