Explore "Gun-Teams" by Gilbert Frankau on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Their rugs are sodden, their heads are down, their / tails are turned to the storm. / (Would you know them, you that groomed them / in the sleek fat days of peace, -- / When the tiles rang to their pawings in the lighted / stalls and warm, -- / Now the foul clay cakes on breeching-strap and / clogs the quick-release? )
The blown rain stings, there is never a star, the / tracks are rivers of slime. / (You must harness up by guesswork with a / failing torch for light, / Instep-deep in unmade standings, for it's active-service time, / And our resting weeks are over, and we move / the guns to-night.)