Henry Treece(22 December 1911 - 10 June 1966 / Wednesbury, Staffordshire)
Poem - III
- by Henry Treece15
Through the dark aisles of the wood Where the pine-needles deaden all sound And the dove flutters in the black boughs
Through twilit vaults of the forest Where fungus stifles the roots And the squirrel escapes with a cone
Through the dim alleys of pine Where the bent stick moves like a snake And the badger sniffs at the moon
Through the green graveyard of leaves Where the stoat rehearses his kill And the white skull grins in the fern.
Lincolnshire Bomber Station
- by Henry Treece14
Across the road the homesick Romans made The ground-mist thickens to a milky shroud; Through flat, damp fields call sheep, mourning their dead In cracked and timeless voices, unutterably sad, Suffering for all the world, in Lincolnshire.
And I wonder how the Romans liked it here; Flat fields, no sun, the muddy misty dawn, And always, above all, the mad rain dripping down, Rusting sword and helmet, wetting the feet And soaking to the bone, down to the very heart . . .
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