Colin F. Jones


~ 1 ~

We sit in rain caked in foul mud
While leaches suck away our blood,
And mosquitoes whine about our heads
To challenge our protective meds.
And the jungle trees are silver green
With shadows lurking in between;
With frightening mysteries in behind
That make our searching eyes so blind.
The swirling zephyr that moves the leaves,
Though just a gentle cooling breeze,
Makes adequate noise to cover din
That helps to camouflage the sound of him
Who would have long been lying still
To wait his chance to rise and kill.

~ 2 ~

But when he moves his shape is seen
For it is black among the green;
And he has moved from shade to sun
Into the sights of a sentry’s gun.
He seems suspended where he stands,
His rifle still clutched in his hands,
As the echo of the fired round
Is the last thing heard as he falls to ground
Where he lies still and out of sight
In a darker shade where there is no light;
Where all he was from him will flee
Into the mud beneath the tree;
Where the hungry insects seek to dine
To the grunts of the wild jungle swine.