On our right flank, the razed Briqueterie,
Their five-nines pounding bits to dustier bits—
Behind, a cratered slope, with batteries
Crashing and flashing, violet in the dusk,
And prematuring every now and then—
In front, the ragged Bois de Bernafay,
Bosche whizz-bangs bursting white among its trees.
You had been doing F.O.O. that day;
(The Staff knows why we had an F.O.O.:
One couldn’t flag-wag through Trônes Wood; the wires