Exposure is one of Wilfrid Owen’s less familiar poems; it begins-
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 memory of the salient…
Worried by silence, sentries whisper, curious, nervous,
But nothing happens.
Watching, we hear the mad gusts tugging on the wire,
Like twitching agonies of men among its brambles.
Northward, incessantly, the flickeing gunnery rumbles,
Far off, like a dull rumour of some other war.
What are we doing here?