Sudden the desert changes,
the raw glare softens and clings,
'til the aching Oudtshoorn ranges
stand up like the thrones of kings.

Ramparts of slaughter and peril-
blazing amazing a-glow!
Between the skyline's beryl,
and the wine dark flats below

Royal the pageant closes
lit by the last of the sun,
Opal and ash-of-roses,
cinnamon ochre and dun

The twilight swallows the thicket,
the moonlight reveals the ridge,
a whistle shrills from the picket,
we're changing guard on the bridge.

Few forgotten and lonely!
Where the empty metals shine.
No, not combatants, only-
details guarding the line.

We slip through the broken panel
of fence by the ganger's shed,
and drop to the waterless channel,
with the lean track overhead.

We stumble on refuse of rations,
the beef and the biscuit tins,
and take our appointed stations
as the endless night begins.

We hear the Hottentot herders
as the sheep click past to the fold,
and the clink of the restless girders
as the steel contracts in the cold.

The voices of jackals calling
and loud the hush between,
a morsel of dry earth falling
from the flanks of the scarred ravine.

And the solemn firmament marches,
and the hosts of heaven rise
frames through the iron arches,
bounded and barred by the ties.

Then we feel the far track humming
and see the headlight's glare,
and we gather and wait her coming
the wonderful northbound train!

Few forgotten and lonely!
where the bright car windows shine
No, not combatants, only-
details guarding the line.

Quick! Lest the gifts escape us,
out of the darkness we reach-
for a handful of week old papers
and a mouthful of human speech.

And the monstrous heaven rejoices
as the world allows again,
meetings greetings and voices
of women talking with men.

So we return to our stations
as out on the bridge she rolls,
and the darkness covers our faces,
and the darkness swallows our souls.

Few forgotten and lonely,
Where the lessening tail-lights shine,
No, not combatants, only-
details guarding the line.

-Bridge guards of the Karroo;
Rudyard Kipling, 1901

---

It has been a while since I drew anything, and I've had that poem stuck in my head for three months. Felt like something that needed exercising out, so what better way to do it than with my own bomb-sniffing raptor and his as yet nameless ratty handler engaged in some good old hurry up and wait.

It is a well known fact that uniformed members of the British armed forces are capable of spontaniously manifesting tea at any given time. Lesser known is this is also true of haribo gummies; sugarfree variants might be requisitioned from the celestial quartermaster when on joint ops with Austrailians and the Dutch.