Epithets of War—I: August 1914

The bronze sun blew a long and shimmering call Over the waves of Brighton and Southend, Over slapped and patted pyramids of sand, Paper Union Jacks and cockle stalls; A pierrot aimed his banjo at the gulls; Small spades dug trenches to let the channel in As nimble donkeys followed their huge heads And charged. In the navy sky the loud white birds Lolled on no wind, then, swinging breathless, skimmed The somersaulting waves; a military band Thumped and brayed, brass pump of sentiment; And far from the beach, inland, lace curtains stirred, A girl played Chopin while her sister pored Over her careful sewing; faint green scent Of grass was sharpened by a gleam of mint, And, farther off, in London, horses pulled Their rumbling drays and vans along the Strand Or trundled down High Holborn and beyond The Stadium Club, where, in the wounded world Of five years later, Georges Carpentier felled Bulldog Joe Beckett in a single round. And all is history; its pages smell Faintly of camphor and dead pimpernel Coffined in leaves, and something of the sand And salt of holiday. But dead. The end Of something never to be lived again.