I
I should like to imagine
A moonlight in which there would be no machine-guns!
For, it is possible
To come out of a trench or a hut or a tent or a church all in ruins:
To see the black perspective of long avenues
All silent.
The white strips of sky
At the sides, cut by the poplar trunks:
The white strips of sky
Above, diminishing–
The silence and blackness of the avenue
Enclosed by immensities of space
Spreading away
Over No Man’s Land. . . .
For a minute . . .
For ten . . .
There will be no star shells
But the untroubled stars,
There will be no Very light
But the light of the quiet moon Like a swan. And silence. . . .
Then, far away to the right thro’ the moonbeams “Wukka Wukka” will go the machine-guns,
And, far away to the left
Wukka Wukka.
And sharply,
Wuk . . . Wuk. . . and then silence
For a space in the clear of the moon.
II
I should like to imagine
A moonlight in which the machine-guns of trouble
Will be silent. . . .
Do you remember, my dear,
Long ago, on the cliffs, in the moonlight,
Looking over to Flatholme
We sat. . . . Long ago! . . .
And the things that you told me . . . .
Little things in the clear of the moon,
The little, sad things of a life. . . .
We shall do it again
Full surely,
Sitting still, looking over at Flatholme.
Then, far away to the right
Shall sound the Machine Guns of trouble
Wukka-wukka!
And, far away to the left, under Flatholme,
Wukka-wuk! . . .
I wonder, my dear, can you stick it?
As we should say: “Stick it, the Welch!”
In the dark of the moon,
Going over. . . .
[Nieppe, near Plugstreet, 17.9.16]