The Calls

A dismal fog-hoarse siren howls at dawn.

I watch the man it calls for, pushed and drawn

Backwards and forwards, helpless as a pawn.

But I'm lazy, and his work's crazy.

Quick treble bells begin at nine o'clock,

Scuttling the schoolboy pulling up his sock,

Scaring the late girl in the inky frock.

I must be crazy; I learn from the daisy.

Stern bells annoy the rooks and doves at ten.

I watch the verger close the doors, and when

I hear the organ moan the first amen,

Sing my religion's-same as pigeons'.

A blatant bugle tears my afternoons.

Out clump the clumsy Tommies by platoons,

Trying to keep in step with rag-time tunes,

But I sit still; I've done my drill.

Gongs hum and buzz like saucepan-lids at dusk,

I see a food-hog whet his gold-filled tusk

To eat less bread, and more luxurious rusk.

Then sometimes late at night my window bumps

From gunnery-practice, till my small heart thumps

And listens for the shell-shrieks and the crumps,

But that's not all.

For leaning out last midnight on my sill

I heard the sighs of men, that have no skill

To speak of their distress, no, nor the will!

A voice I know. And this time I must go.