Colin F. Jones and Nancy L. Meek


~ 1 ~

In fog so hazy is the pavement light,
Mystery caught in hedge growths in the night,
As dampness with the mist shrouds further look,
Beyond the trail the night toad undertook.
In hedge the silken webs of spiders gleam,
That in the daylight hours are seldom seen,
And the Robin with his red breast buttoned tight,
Sleeps through the icy coldness of the night.
The Grey tarmac begins to slowly freeze;
While Owls take shelter in the Chestnut trees.
And by the brook a wild duck prunes its wing,
As in the nearby church the children sing.
And old folk huddle round their open fires,
As the distant gunfire for the night retires.

~ 2 ~

The silver green grass lawns the silent park,
Where lively yet flits and sings a Lark,
Above the bench of wood where lies a soul,
Wrapped in a ragged coat now very old,
That through the wool the sobbing mists do seep,
While whitening frost about his body creeps.
And his old frozen hands with knuckles tight,
Describe the final actions of his fight,
For he lies dead struck down by savage blow,
But none of his last cries will ever know,
Who were not there to see this veteran die,
Nor who would in the frozen night pass by.
‘Tis but the pavement light defying dark
That lights the shadowy figure and the Lark.


Then morning brings the guns once more
And the old folk wake to bolt their door
And the children cower beneath their bed
For fear that evening will find them dead.
By the frozen brook, wild ducks in fright
Fly away as proud men fight.
The White Owl seems to ignore it all
His eyelids shut as brave men fall.
The fog lifts and the sun beams through
And the tarmac, thawed, comes into view.
The spider’s web, weaved by night,
Splits apart as planes take flight
As the war yawns and spreads its wings
Ignoring far less important things.

~ 3 ~

As day slips from its sunny crest
The great war creature takes its rest,
And the old folk venture out again,
To shop along the Stony Lane.
And to the brook the ducks return,
Lit by the fires from bombs that burn.
Along the streets are unlit lamps,
Where Children with their gas masks tramp,
While the hungry Owl feeds on a mouse,
In the wood behind the burnt out house.
And again the spider weaves his web,
As fog and smoke enshroud the dead.
And the Lark still flits about the park,
As quietly descends the tranquil dark.

~ 4 ~

The Owl content with Ghostly hoots,
Ignores the men in rubber boots;
The stretcher bearers from the park,
Pursued by an irate little Lark,
Who transport a body to their van,
As gently and calmly as they can.
The Spiders web is complete once more,
With silver threads insects deplore.
And all the children now asleep,
See not the moon begin to peep.
But then a hush dwells all around,
A flashing light without a sound!!
Then whoosh! The world is blown away…
In ashes left to deaths decay.