Red roofs peeping through the stately trees,
A distant spire; smoke floating on the breeze;
The whir of aeroplanes high overhead;
Brown cows, by dirty village girls led;
A cyclist rushing down the road in front;
And infantry, away to bear the brunt.
The shrill cry of the farmer to his mare,
A blue betrousered Frenchman over there;
The trailing cavalcade of mounted grooms,
And distant thunder where the big gun booms.
The mottled tents and blankets out to dry,
An orderly, who carries water by,
And fleecy clouds that climb the azure sky.
Maisnil Bouché, 24th September, 1916.