102 WILFRID WILSON GIBSON
And knots of tape and reels of thread and knots Of tape and reels of thread and knots of tape, Day in, day out, and answering " Have you got"s And "Do you keep"s, till there seemed no escape From everlasting serving in a shop. Inquiring what each customer required, Politely talking weather, fit to drop. With swollen ankles, tired . . .
But he was tired Now. Every bone was aching, and had ached For fourteen days and nights in that wet
trench — Just duller when he slept than when he waked — Crouching for shelter from the steady drench Of shell and shrapnel . . .
That old trench, it seemed Almost like home to him. He'd slept and fed And sung and smoked in it, while shrapnel screamed And shells went whining harmless overhead — Harmless, at least, as far as he . . .
But Dick — Dick hadn't found them harmless yesterday. At breakfast, when he'd said he couldn't stick Eating dry bread, and crawled out the back way, And brought them butter in a lordly dish — Butter enough for all, and held it high, Yellow and fresh and clean as you could wish — When plump upon the plate from out the sky
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