The tired air groans as the heavies swing over, the river-hollows boom; <br />The shell-fountains leap from the swamps, and with wildfire and fume <br />The shoulder of the chalkdown convulses. <br />Then the jabbering echoes stampede in the slatting wood, <br />Ember-black the gibbet trees like bones or thorns protrude <br />From the poisonous smoke – past all impulses. <br />To them these silvery dews can never again be dear, <br />Nor the blue javelin-flame of the thunderous noons strike fear.<br /><br />Edmund Blunden<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/thiepval-wood/
