Poem

(Abbreviated from the conversation with Mr. T E H. Over the flat slope of St Eloi A wide wall of sandbags. Night, In the silence desultory men Pottering over small fires, cleaning their mess-tins: To and fro, from the lines, Men walk as on Piccadilly, Making paths in the dark, Through scattered dead horses, Over a dead Belgian’s body. The Germans have rockets. The English have no rockets, Behind the lines, cannon, hidden, lying back miles. Before the line, chaos. My mind is a corridor. The minds about me are corridors. Nothing suggests itself. There is nothing to do but keep on.