Wilfred Gibson
Night shatters in mid-
heaven: the bark of guns,
The roar of planes, the
crash of bombs, and all
The unshackled skiey
The senses to indifference,
when a fall
Of masonry nearby startles
awake,
Tingling, wide-eyed,
prick-eared, with
bristling hair,
Each sense within the body,
crouched aware
Like some sore-hunted
creature in the brake.
Yet side by side we lie in the
little room
Just touching hands, with
eyes and ears that strain
Keenly, yet dream-
bewildered, through
tense gloom,
Listening, in helpless
stupor of insane
Cracked nightmares panic,
fantastically wild,
To the quiet breathing of
our sleeping child.
—1919