# Wirers

“Pass it along, the wiring party’s 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, night’s misery ended.

Young Hughes was badly hit; I heard him carried away,

Moaning at every lurch; no doubt he’ll die to-day.

But we can say the front-line wire’s been safely mended.

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