LIMBO

After a week spent under raining skies,

In horror, mud and sleeplessness, a week

Of bursting shells, of blood and hideous cries

And the ever-watchful sniper: where the reek

Of death offends the living... but poor dead

Ca n't sleep, must lie awake with the horrid sound

That roars and whirs and rattles overhead

All day, all night, and jars and tears the ground;

When rats run, big as kittens: to and fro

They dart, and scuffle with their horrid fare,

And then one night relief comes, and we go

Miles back into the sunny cornland where

Babies like tickling, and where tall white horses

Draw the plough leisurely in quiet courses.