by Ivor Gurney
Half dead with sheer tiredness, wakened quick at night •
With dysentry pangs, going blind among sleepers
And dazed into half-dark, illness had its spite.
Head cleared, eyes saw; horrible body-creepers
Stilled with the cold - the cold bringing me sane -
See there was Witcombe Steep as it were, but no beeches there.
Yet still clear flames of stars over the crest bare,
Mysterious glowing on the cloths of heaven,
Best turn in, fatigue party out at seven
Dark was the billet after that seeing rare.
Last updated July 01, 2015