To be absent without leave

Time, sweeping, desolates
your best hours and your hand
stays, short of miracle. You need
look neither far nor hard - the State's
drab agents there demand
your man again to arms.
He's sworn to serve, but not to bleed.
Easterlies cramp the pines,
gorse runs mad on their hill.
Remember me. The game is played
not to be won, but who designs
loss as his aim? I tell
you nothing new; I know
only we are, in time, dismayed.