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Exposure GCSE English poem

For Power&Conflict anthology
Quiz by
Hbomb64
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Last updated: April 10, 2026
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First submittedApril 10, 2026
Times taken1
Average score17.0%
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Answer
 
Our brains ache, in the merciless iced east winds that knive us
 
Wearied we keep awake because the night is silent
 
Low, drooping flares confuse our memories of the salient
 
Worried by silence, sentries whisper, curious, nervous
 
But nothing happens
SPACE
1
aka '1'
Watching, we hear the mad husts tugging on the wire
 
Like twitching agonies of men among its brambles
 
Northward, incessantly, the flickering gunnery rumbles
 
Far off, like some dull rumour of some other war
 
What are we doing here?
SPACE
1
 
The poignant misery of dawn begins to grow
 
We only know war lasts, rain soaks, and clouds sag stormy
 
Dawn massing in the east her melancholy army
 
Attacks once more in ranks on shivering ranks of grey,
 
But nothing happens
SPACE
1
 
Sudden successive flights of bullets streak the silence
 
Less deadly than the air that shudders black with snow
 
With sidelong flowing flakes that flock, pause and renew
 
We watch them wandering up and down the winds nonchalance
 
But nothing happens
SPACE
1
 
Pale flakes with fingering stealth come feeling for our faces
 
We cringe in holes, back on forgotten dreams, and stare snow-dazed
 
Deep into grassier ditches. So we drowse, sun-dozed
 
Littered with blossoms trickling where the blackbird fusses
 
Is it that we are dying?
SPACE
1
 
Slowly our ghosts drag home: glimpsing the sunk fires, glozed
 
With crusted dark red jewels; crickets jingle there;
 
For hours the innocent mice rejoice: the house is theirs;
 
Shutters and doors all closed: on us the doors are closed
 
We turn back to our dying
SPACE
1
 
Since we believe not otherwise can kind fires burn
 
Nor ever suns smile true on child, or field or fruit
 
For God's invincible spring our love is made afraid
 
Therefore. not loath, we lie out here: therefore were born
 
For love of God seems dying
SPACE
1
 
Tonight this frost will fasten on this mud and us
 
Shrivelling many hands, puckering foreheads crisp
 
The burying party, with picks and shovels in shaking grasp
 
Pause over half known faces. All their eyes are ice
 
But nothing happens
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