Steep prickly slopes in shadow from the moon
sagging behind us down the strident sky.
Guns blaze and slam. The stars burn fever bright.
A low white ridge ahead, and the crumpled sound
of shelling.
“Jerry’s out—”
A snarling croon
wheels over us—quick glittering tracers fly
down a pale searchlight, and along the ground
bombs blast into smoky yellow shot with light.
“These runners will get you up there pretty soon.
—Take them up to the Second Battalion.”
My tongue goes dry
and scrapy, and my lips begin to jerk—
—”Look out for the gas—they been pumping it in all night.”
“Let’s go, Tommy.”
“0 God wait a minute—I’ve found
something wrong with my mask—the damn thing doesn’t work.”
(John Allan Wyeth)
More Poetry from John Allan Wyeth:
John Allan Wyeth Poems based on Topics: Night, Light, Work & Career- Entente Cordiale (John Allan Wyeth Poems)
- In a Dug-out (John Allan Wyeth Poems)
- Regimental Maps from Headquarters (John Allan Wyeth Poems)
- Second Battalion Headquarters (John Allan Wyeth Poems)
- Through the Valley (John Allan Wyeth Poems)
- Regimental Dressing Station (John Allan Wyeth Poems)
Readers Who Like This Poem Also Like:
Based on Topics: Night Poems, Light Poems, Work & Career PoemsBased on Keywords: shelling, searchlight, tracers