Keith's Wood

Sun, morning,
Seven o'clock mist as it comes
Curiously weaves from the pond,
From the long flat-the fields.
Nobody here

No one but target dummies
Behind the goal mouth, and the run-up
Hoofed, from yesterday's Corps practice.

Out of the sunlight
In the dip
A mill-race
A March wood
A path through,
The hardy frost banks of a wood gulley.

A path with no end but the day and more
Of the morning,
An oubliette perhaps.

And that wall
On the other side of the stream
I saw was only a wall, and that trench
...