John Allan Wyeth
Our staff car flies and trails a long-spun haze
over the looping road and the surge and fall
of the heaving plains ~~ quick dusty tree trunks throw
their flickering bars of shadow in our eyes.
A wood ~~ men leading horses out to graze ~~
a misty bridge, and past the lumbering crawl
of crowded lorries ~~ low hills all aglow
with tufts of trees against the evening skies
and long blond hill slopes catching level rays
along their quilted flanks ~~ and under all,
the deep earth breathing like a thing asleep.
And there, Corbie ~~ her brittle walls brought low ~~
a brick-choked wreck, in which her ruins rise
like gravestones planted in a rubbish heap.
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Analysis (AI Assisted)
The poem moves quickly, much like the staff car it describes, sweeping across the landscape with an almost cinematic motion. The opening line establishes this speed—”flies and trails a long-spun haze”—giving a sense of movement, urgency, and perhaps even detachment. The road loops, the plains surge and fall, everything is in motion, but this isn’t the thrilling rush of adventure; it’s more like the constant movement of war, a journey through devastation that never seems to end.
The details of the landscape—dusty tree trunks, shadows flickering across the eyes—add to the disorienting effect. These aren’t serene countryside images; they are restless and fleeting. Even in a moment of apparent stillness, with men leading horses out to graze, there is something temporary about it, as if peace is something borrowed, not owned. Then, the scene shifts again—a bridge shrouded in mist, lorries crawling forward, low hills glowing in the fading light. Everything feels like it’s in transition, caught between destruction and something resembling normal life.
The imagery of the land itself is striking—”long blond hill slopes catching level rays along their quilted flanks.” There’s beauty in the description, but it’s an empty kind of beauty, one that exists separate from the war happening all around it. Underneath everything, “the deep earth breathing like a thing asleep” introduces an eerie undertone. The earth itself seems alive, indifferent, or perhaps waiting. It’s as if the ground absorbs everything—the movement, the war, the death—and keeps going, unbothered.
Then, the poem lands in Corbie, and all the beauty is stripped away. The description of the town is brutal—“her brittle walls brought low—a brick-choked wreck.” The destruction isn’t just mentioned; it’s physically felt in the way the words pile on top of each other. The ruins don’t just sit there; they rise “like gravestones planted in a rubbish heap.” It’s a powerful, bitter image. There’s no attempt to romanticize the destruction. The town, once living, is now a graveyard of itself, a place where even its own ruins seem discarded.
The poem captures the experience of war not through battle scenes, but through what war leaves behind. The landscape is still there, still functioning, still catching the light, but the human world—the towns, the buildings, the places where people lived—is shattered. The movement of the car, the racing of images past the soldiers’ eyes, mirrors the way war doesn’t allow time to process anything. You just keep going, from one ruined place to the next.