Foul Weather, Wild Fowl

The rain did not disappoint, turned up ahead of time so that we
magnificent seven, adorned

With hope over realism and water over wax, took up our posts to receive
the grazing looters.

But they sit tight, steady in the downpour; geese have horse-sense. Not
so young gunners bored, soaked, forlorn;

Unvirtual creeping damp wicks and wins. Drench abandoned, wandering
turn backs with empty shooters.

If Greylags laugh they’re laughing yet, a squadron massed the now
deserted line, grey clouds filled black with lags;

Startled lads agape, caught flatfooted in their open disbelief. Were geese
armed we’d have all been shot to rags.