More milk hearted; a timid stunt
of drifts and thieves distorted,

the silks of a grave surpassed -
a  lay  unchartered, where fray

and wound next glory became
a khaki hill without a name.

The tame of each dread root
thwarted – the tip of each snapped finger

larked and dipped its fever
into parts of men long since lost -

a thousand yards of misspent youth
martyred in the frost.