Pass it along, the wiring partys going out
And yawning sentries mumble, Wirers going out.
Unravelling; twisting; hammering stakes with muffled thud,
They toil with stealthy haste and anger in their blood.
The Boche sends up a flare. Black forms stand rigid there,
Stock-still like posts; then darkness, and the clumsy ghosts
Stride hither and thither, whispering, tripped by clutching snare
Of snags and tangles.
Ghastly dawn with vaporous coasts
Gleams desolate along the sky, nights misery ended.
Young Hughes was badly hit; I heard him carried away,
Moaning at every lurch; no doubt hell die to-day.
But we can say the front-line wires been safely mended.
