More songs by the fighting men. Soldiers poets: second series/Brian Hill

BRIAN HILL

2nd Lieut., Durham Light Infantry

 

Salonika in November

UP above the grey hills the wheeling birds are calling,⁠
⁠Round about the cold grey hills in never-resting flight;
Far along the marshes a drifting mist is falling,
⁠Scattered tents and sandy plain melt into the night.

Round about the grey hills rumbles distant thunder,
⁠Echoes of the mighty guns firing night and day,—
Grey guns, long guns, that smite the hills asunder,
⁠Grumbling and rumbling, and telling of the fray.

Out among the islands twinkling lights are glowing,
⁠Distant little fairy lights, that gleam upon the bay;
All along the broken road grey transport waggons going
⁠Up to where the long grey guns roar and crash alway.

Up above the cold grey hills the wheeling birds are crying,
⁠Brother calls to brother, as they pass in restless flight.
Lost souls, dead souls, voices of the dying,
⁠Circle o'er the hills of Greece and wail into the night.