Standing alone in the outer ditch of Chiselbury Fort, this morning
-- just before the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month --
it felt a very sombre, trench-like place to be: especially as a heavy incoming storm
seemed to be trying to drive away all the colour from around me.

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A few moments later,
we had a temporary restoration of colour
-- although it was rather eerie at the time... --
before it finally turned very, very dark,
and we were hit by heavy rain....



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The Unreturning
Wilfred Owen (1893-1918)

Suddenly night crushed out the day and hurled
Her remnants over cloud-peaks, thunder-walled.
Then fell a stillness such as harks appalled
When far-gone dead return upon the world.

There watched I for the Dead; but no ghost woke.
Each one whom Life exiled I named and called.
But they were all too far, or dumbed, or thralled;
And never one fared back to me or spoke.

Then peered the indefinite unshapen dawn
With vacant gloaming, sad as half-lit minds,
The weak-limned hour when sick men's sighs are drained.
And while I wondered on their being withdrawn,
Gagged by the smothering wing which none unbinds,
I dreaded even a heaven with doors so chained.

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