Raining Poem by Tom Billsborough

Two galaxies drawn up
Two miles apart
Upon that final night
Await the obliterating dawn.

Two armies
The British and the French
Entrenched and crouched above
Their separated fires
Bowed by fear, the driving rain,
The downpour welcome
To the British high command,
But to the other brings despair.
Since their superior power
Of cannon fire will be absorbed
By the sodden ground
As they seek to pound
The British squares and enfilades
Into submission.

The vision of those dreadful missiles
Which use brave men as skittles
Will lose so much
Of their rearing, bouncing terror.

Now deep furrows shape
On Napoleon's brow
As he watches the rain again
From the flaps of his tent.
Should he now withdraw?
No, no, there is no time to spare.
His enemies gather from all quarters.
He must act now and
Deal with the Prussians later.
The rain may be a curtain
But he is certain
And has faith in his future.