Wingate felt a frog in his throat As he patted Black Whistle’s reeking coat And reined him in for a minute’s breath. He was hot as the devil and tired to death, And both were glad for the sun in the West And a panting second of utter rest, While Wingate’s mind went patching together Like a cobbler piecing out scraps of leather The broken glimmers of what they’d done Since the sun in the West was a rising sun. The long, bored hours of shiftless waiting And that single instant of pure, fierce hating When the charge came down like a cataract On a long blue beach of broken sand And Thought was nothing but all was Act And the sabre seemed to master the hand.