A chit of Uhlans flaked from the order of battle,
milling bogside beneath a glowering sky. Their mounts
stamp down an insurgency of weeds, upturning turf.
Horses and riders twist in centaur-wonder at the mist
spread fine as net. The groan of
earth, a distant roar of waters, these they take
as storm and reinforcement, not the opening of locks
other side the manmade hill, where the canal
winds between straightaways, tunneling the fog as though
the day were any other late summer day.