1917 North   Recruits who brought their horses from home left us to ride on them   now we’re on track, creaky saddle, supple back, to find our way to Beersheba   with a tinny black pan and a plate of scran but only dribs of water,   up from Suez leaving bakers and brewers. Johnny’s waiting in Beersheba.   Tomorrow’s to be Gallipoli, second time, for you and me on horseback two years later.   We’ll gallop through the town heads or tails or penny brown as we charge through Beersheba. Les Murray