gcls_berea_comm_doc_003_024

THE EVE OF BATTLE

The spreading trees which sift the moon
Yield splotched patchwork on the ground.
The moonlight finds it way between
The limbs and feebly mocks the sun.
And all the boys lay 'round the fire,
Afraid to move, to make a sound.
Great stillness as if death were near,
Perchance an omen of things to come.
In each mind the day has dawned,
The battle come, the sabres drawn.
Every ear hears battle sounds,
The rumbling noise of guns resound.
Then a twig snaps in the night.
And each young solider starts with fright.
With failing hearts and trembling chins
They settle back to fight again.

by Eric Riggins '72

XXIV