In the Trenches

AS I lay in the trenchesUnder the Hunter's Moon,My mind ran to the lenchesCut in a Wiltshire down.

I saw their long black shadows,The beeches in the lane,The grey church in the meadowsAnd my white cottage—plain.

Thinks I, the down lies dreamingUnder that hot moon's eye,Which sees the shells fly screamingAnd men and horses die.

And what makes she, I wonder,Of the horror and the blood,And what's her luck, to sunderThe evil from the good?

'Twas more than I could compass,For how was I to thinkWith such infernal rumpusIn such a blasted stink?

But here's a thought to tallyWith t'other. That moon seesA shrouded German valleyWith woods and ghostly trees.

And maybe there's a riverAs we have got at homeWith poplar-trees aquiverAnd clots of whirling foam.

And over there some fellow,A German and a foe,Whose gills are turning yellowAs sure as mine are so,

Watches that riding gloryApparel'd in her gold,And craves to hear the storyHer frozen lips enfold.

And if he sees as clearlyAs I do where her shrineMust fall, he longs as dearly,With heart as full as mine.

Maurice Hewlett