Night enfolds her cloak of holes
Around the river meadow
Old moon-light stalks by broken ploughs
Hides spokeless wheels in shadow
Sentries lean on thorn wood spears
Blow on their hands, stare eastwards
Burnt with dream and taut with fear
Dawn's misty shawl upon them
Three hills apart great armies stir
Spit oat and curse as day breaks
Forming lines of horse and steel
By even yards march forward