Exposure Our brains ache in the merciless iced east winds that nivus. Wearied we keep awake because the night is silent. Load, rupping flares confuse our memory of the salient, Worryed by silent centuries whisper, curious, nervous, nothing happens. Watching we hear the manned gusts tugging on the wire, Like twitching agonies of men among its brambles. Northward incessantly the flickering gunnery rumbles, Far off like a dull rumour of some other war. What are we doing here? The poignant misery of dawn begins to grow. We only know war lasts, rain soaks and clouds sag stormy. Dawn massing in the east her melancholy army, Attacks once more in ranks on shivering ranks of grey. But nothing happens. Sudden successive flights of bullets streak the silence, Less deathly than the air that shutters black with snow, With side-long flowing flakes that flock, pause and renew. We watch them wandering up and down the winds nonchalance, But nothing happens. Pale flakes with fingering stealth come feeling for our faces. We cringe in halls, back on forgotten dreams and stare, Snow-dazed, deep into grassy ditches, So we drowns, sundares, littered with blossoms trickling Where the black bird fuses. Is it that we are dying? Slowly our ghosts drag home, glimpsing the sunk fires, Glowsed with crusted dark red jewels. Crickets jingle though, that hours the innocent mice rejoice, The house is theirs, shutters and doors all closed. On us the doors are closed. We turn back to our dying. Since we believe not otherwise can kind fires burn, Nor will ever suns smile true on child or field or fruit. For God's invincible string our love is made afraid. Therefore not loathe we lie out here. Therefore we are born for love of God seems dying. Tonight this frost will fasten on this mud and us, Shriveling many hands, puckering foreheads crisp, The burying party, picks and shovels in shaking grass, Pawns over half known faces, all their eyes at ice, But nothing happens.