Night enfolds her cloak of holes

Around the river meadow.

Old moon-light stalks by broken ploughs

Hides spokeless wheels in shadow.

Sentries lean on thorn wood spears

Blow on their hands, stare eastwards.



Burnt with dream and taut with fear

Dawn's misty shawl upon them.

Three hills apart great armies stir

Spit oat and curse as day breaks.

Forming lines of horse and steel

By even yards march forward.