Spring in Camp, 1941

War becomes time, and long logic

On buried premises; spring supervenes

With the circle as badge which, pun and profundity,

Vast, appears line and logical,

But, small, shows travel returning.

Circle is circle, proves nothing, makes nothing,

Swallows up process and end in no argument,

Brings new picture of old time.

Here in barracks is intake of birds,

The sun holds early his orderly room,

The pale company clerk is uneasy

As spring brings odour of other springs.

The truckdriver sings, free of the road,

The load of winter and war becomes

Embarrassing as a younger self.

Words disintegrate; war is words.